


Go Big or Go Home

by Chubstilinski



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Baking, Belly Kink, Belly Rubs, Birthday Party, Chatting & Messaging, Chef Derek, Chubby Kink, Chubby Stiles, Cooking, Cruise Ships, Embarrassment, Fat Shaming, Hand Feeding, Humiliation, Intoxication, M/M, Marijuana, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Online Relationship, Recreational Drug Use, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Stoner Stiles Stilinski, Stuffing, Teasing, Underage Drinking, Vacation, Weight Gain, referenced past stalia, tight clothes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-01
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2018-06-05 16:41:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 48,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6712834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chubstilinski/pseuds/Chubstilinski
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>That’s the moment that Stiles knows he’s not going to stop, that he craves this more than he’d even realized, and he </em>knows<em>, deep down in his bones, that he’s only going to get fatter.</em></p>
<p>Stiles had always been a skinny kid, but the unlimited buffet on a post-graduation cruise introduces him to the pleasures of gluttony, and before he knows it, he's consumed by the idea of getting fatter. By his senior year in college, a guy Stiles meets online starts giving him gaining encouragement, and soon enough, his weight is exploding... But so is his crush on his friend's older brother Derek, who seems unusually interested in getting Stiles to indulge himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I'm On a Boat

**Author's Note:**

> Bear with me, there's no Derek or Sterek in the first chapter, but trust me there will be. Also I will add more tags as they feature in the story!

Until now, there’s never been a time when Stiles could say he felt fat. He’s been skinny all his life without really trying, but only four days into a nine day cruise, Stiles feels massively _fat_.

Okay, he isn't _actually_ fat. This isn't like some cartoon where the character gets huge from one meal, but he’s never been more bloated, never eaten as much as he has been, or had any excuse to. He glances down at his torso through the pink tint of his sunglasses. Even reclining all the way back in his pool chair doesn’t do anything to lessen the little pouch of his belly, still kind of full from breakfast and carrying multiple consecutive _days_ worth of bloating.

He sips his extremely expensive strawberry margarita, feels the coolness slide down his throat and into his already swollen stomach. And he says a prayer of thanks to whoever is listening for the fact that the cruise line had accepted the forged papers from his “parent or guardian” allowing him to order drinks.

Beached by the poolside, with salty ocean air in his lungs and the blissful sound of waves in his ears, Stiles feels more relaxed than he’s been in months. The pressures of senior year and college applications were a lot to handle. But next year he’s headed to Berkeley on a 15k a year scholarship and he’s feeling awesome about life.

And fat; he feels really fat. They’re gonna have to roll him off the ship if he has his way, because now that he’s discovered the wonders of basically unlimited feasting, he doesn’t _ever_ want to stop. Mostly it's only his friends that keep him in check. Well, keep him from getting fourths at the breakfast buffet, just so he’s not the only one still eating. But there’s something wildly satisfying about how unlimited it all is. Something inside him just wants to keep eating. All day long.

Stiles resists the urge to feel a hand down the expanse of his belly for just long enough to realize he can do it surreptitiously if he applies another layer of sunscreen. The lotion feels hot and greasy from sitting out next to him, and he spends a long time rubbing it into his skin, making sure it’s not caught in the trail of hair that leads into his trunks. His belly feels taut and rounded, with just a little give. It feels good to have his hands on it. Stiles isn’t really sure why, but he’s a little drunk so he doesn’t question it.

Stiles closes his eyes, feeling like a buttery biscuit baking under the hot sun. He imagines himself rising like dough and feels a tug low in his gut. Stiles only realizes he’s still rubbing his belly when he hears Lydia say, “Does that mean you’re still too full to come to lunch with us, Stiles?”

He blinks his eyes open drowsily and sees Lydia with Aiden standing behind her, snickering. “Um, _no_ , it does not mean that,” Stiles says.

He sits up slowly and chugs down the last of his drink. It gives him a bit of a brain freeze but the tequila hits him hard and it totally makes up for it. The fact of the matter is, though, that Stiles _is_ still kind of full from breakfast. Well, breakfast plus the drinks and snacks he’s been munching on since then. But the thought of the lunch buffet pushes Stiles out of his chair with his mouth watering and that persistent tug in his gut.

He picks up his t-shirt and wrestles the fabric over his lotiony skin, ignoring the way it feels a little…clingy. Aiden gives him a look up and down and says, “Don’t overdo it, buddy.”

“Shut up, asshole.” Stiles glares at him and keeps walking, resolutely not looking at Aiden’s ever-present washboard abs which are not eclipsed in the slightest by a _perfectly_ _normal_ vacation bloat. “What are cruises for if not totally pigging out, huh?" 

“The gym here is actually pretty nice; you should try it.”

“Ugh, fuck you. Are you seriously working out on vacation? You’re inhuman.” Aiden just laughs at him so he adds, “And believe it or not, I _have_ seen the gym.”

“Yeah, when we were on our way to the spa,” Lydia chimes in.

“Well… yeah.” 

“It’s not like you were actually using it.”

“Well, _no_ , but I _could_ , okay?”

“You could. But you won’t.”

“No, what the fuck, who works out on _vacation_? That’s like a cardinal sin.”

Lydia ticks off on her fingers. “Well let’s see, besides Aiden, we have me--”

“You too? Betrayal.”

“--Scott, and Allison. Not to mention, of course, all the other people I saw using it.”

“Wait a minute, are you saying you _all_ used the gym since you’ve been here? Where was I?”  

“Probably still sleeping off a food coma.” 

“Pff. Where’s Scotty? He would defend my honor. You guys aren’t my friends anymore.”

"I'm not sure we were ever friends to begin with." 

Stiles wants to be insulted, but it's kind of true. So he just says, "Touché."

Thankfully they make it to the restaurant and all it takes is for Stiles to inhale the sweet smell of food and he completely forgets what they’re even talking about. He makes a beeline for the buffet. It all looks so good, Stiles piles his plate with the first few things he sees. He’ll load up his second plate with some of the other options, he promises himself. But for now he has some buttery shrimp, fried shrimp, mussels, and potatoes.

Stiles finds the table where his friends are sitting and takes a seat next to Scott. “Dude,” Scott says, eying Stiles’s plate, “How.”

Stiles suddenly remembers Scott trying to keep up with him at breakfast, but only making it through two big plates before tapping out, where Stiles recalls feeling distinctly like he could’ve eaten a little more after three. But Scott is now leaning back in his chair and only has a glass of water in front of him. _Weak_.

Stiles shoves two shrimp in his mouth at once and says, “It’s been like two _hours_ , bro. Are you seriously still full?”

“Are you seriously still _hungry_?” Scott counters.

“ _Maybe_. Jesus, what is with everyone today?” Stiles stuffs a couple fried shrimp in his mouth and uses a tiny fork to pull a mussel out of its shell.

“Don’t mind Scott,” Allison says, patting Scott’s arm. “He’s just pissed you out-ate him.”

“Aha! My one true talent.” Stiles pops the mussel in his mouth.

“I’ll beat you one day,” Scott pouts. 

“Dream on, buddy. I’ll eat you under the table any day of the week.”

“I wouldn’t bet against you,” Aiden says.

“Thank you, Aiden! I think.”

The food Stiles grabbed is disappearing all too quickly. The restaurant should really invest in bigger plates. Having to get up for more is seriously inconvenient, Stiles thinks, barely swallowing before he’s shoving more food in.

Stiles loses the thread of the conversation when it shifts to less enticing topics than how awesome Stiles is at eating. But he lets the pleasant hum of it wash over him as he devours every morsel on his plate. He gets up with barely a pause after finishing. His belly jostles with the movement, tight and _definitely_ full now, but he still wants more.  

This time he picks up a couple of lobster tails, some calamari and some sushi. He munches on the calamari on the way back to the table, unable to wait. It just smells so _good_ and he feels greedy for it.  

Stiles plops back in his chair and starts demolishing his sushi. It’s amazing, honestly, and the _l_ _obster_. Especially drenched in the little cup of melted butter he snagged; it’s perfect. He licks his fingers free of butter and spices and feels a burp make its way up. He buries it behind his hand, sound muffled but not totally covered. The release of pressure in his gut is palpable. He hadn’t even really realized how full he was getting.

Stiles sets out to immediately fill the space in his belly with fried squid. He knows he’s probably overdoing it a bit, but at the moment he doesn’t really care. All the food is so fucking good here and it’s _vacation_ and he _deserves_ it. Stiles can hardly believe he’d been denying himself the pleasures of food all this time. He’s gonna have to make up for that. Starting with polishing off the rest of the sushi.

Allison finishes up her first plate as Stiles pops the last calamari into his mouth. “Hey, Stiles.”

“Wha?” Stiles says with his mouth full.

“You had enough yet?”

“F’ck off.” Stiles swallows. “Not you, too.”

She rolls her eyes and says, “I was just gonna go for another round, come on.”

“Oh. Well in that case, I’m your guy.” Stiles heaves himself up from his chair and follows Allison over to the buffet. God, he feels fat. His stomach is practically leading him as he walks, heavy and round. “Glad to see someone else wants to actually _enjoy_ themselves here.”  

Allison laughs, brightly. “Not everyone's idea of enjoyment is eating until you can't get up anymore. Just FYI.”

“Well they're obviously missing out.”

“I happen to agree with you, which is why--” Allison picks up a few rolls of sushi and puts them on her plate, “We're getting seconds.”

“Thirds for me,” Stiles says, rubbing the crest of his belly.

Allison giggles. “Of course, sorry. Didn’t mean to underestimate you.”

“You’re forgiven.” 

Stiles deliberates on what to get for a moment. This will probably have to be his last plate; his friends are likely going to be done soon and he isn’t quite bold enough to tell them to go on without him so he can finish gorging himself. Though he thinks about it, he really does. 

Though he’s not entirely confident that he’ll be able to eat much more, even if he does _._ He wonders what it says about him that he wants to try. To really see where his limits are. To _actually_ eat so much he can’t get up.  

Stiles settles on loading his third plate with a heap of crab legs and a bowl of melted butter. They’ll take him awhile to eat, give his groaning stomach a little time to settle. Also, he fucking loves crab.

When they get back to the table, Stiles doesn’t waste time cracking them between his fingers to pull the meat out. He drenches every bite in butter and licks his fingers clean. It’s like heaven. And Stiles figures eating little bites at a time like this will let him eat more in the long run.

What actually happens is, halfway through the crab legs, the extent of his meal really catches up with him. He feels dangerously full, stomach a mess of achy pressure. He leans against the table and groans and burps into his fist. But… against all reason, Stiles feels, in that moment, really, _really_ fucking good.

So he keeps eating.

Allison feeds a grinning Scott pieces of sushi from her plate; they’re totally absorbed in their own little world. It’s fucking adorable and Stiles is incredibly jealous. He wants someone to feed _him_ little bites of sushi. Or big ones. Yeah. A whole platter of sushi just for Stiles.

He’s suddenly grateful for the tablecloth covering him because he’s starting to get a little… excited. He shifts in his chair and tries to calm himself. It’s not easy, considering the half plate of food in front of him, and the way his gut feels so absolutely, ridiculously full. He’s not sure when those things started turning him on so much, but, god, they really do.

Stiles cleans his plate in a haze of lust and gluttony, entwined together in a way he had no idea was even possible. And then, collapsed back in his chair, one hand rested on his belly while he licks the buttery fingers on the other clean, Stiles still thinks a _little_ about eating more. Mostly he just doesn’t really want to move again. Ever, if possible. He wonders if someone would get up and fetch him a fourth plate if he offered to buy them drinks...

“I’m guessing you don’t want to join us for volleyball?” Aiden says. 

Thinking about how much playing volleyball would jostle his aching belly makes him grimace. He barely wants to even _stand_ right now. “Ugh, no.”  

Scott reaches over to pat Stiles’s stomach and a little burp slips out before he can catch it. He feels his face heat up even as he laughs along. “It’s okay, dude, you go relax,” Scott says. “We’ll come get you for the casino later.”

Stiles’s heart is filled to bursting with love for his best friend. Almost as full as his belly is with seafood buffet. “Aw, thanks, buddy.”

They all start getting up and Stiles takes that as his cue. He takes a deep breath to prepare himself, and then shoves his body out of his chair, stumbling only a little. His stomach pangs and Stiles shuffles out, pathetically, behind his friends.

Allison stops halfway to the cabins, thank god, to take pictures of the sky and sea. It’s a beautiful day. She snaps one of Lydia looking fucking stunning, and then she says, “Hey guys, stand against the railing I’m gonna take a pic.”

Lydia says, “You have to be in it, too. We need to take a group shot.” She waves at a man passing. “Hi, sorry, would you mind taking a picture of us?” 

“Sure,” he says. 

_Fuck_ , Stiles thinks.

They all line up next to each other, so there’s no hope for Stiles to hide his gut behind anyone. He tries valiantly to suck in, but it feels _terrible_ and he can tell it’s not really working like it should. Still, he smiles for the camera and lets go pretty much as soon as he hears the camera click. Unfortunately, the guy takes another for safety. Asshole. He can only hope if Allison decides to put pics on Facebook or anything, she picks the first shot.

When Stiles has successfully waddled back to his cabin and toed off his flip flops, he collapses into bed, starfished over the covers. He takes out his phone and checks Instagram, is greeted almost immediately by a group shot of him and his friends in front of an ocean backdrop. Everyone else looks tan and delicately windswept and gorgeous, and Stiles is in the middle, squinting in the sun with a grimacing smile on his face, belly rounded and pushing at the tight material of his t-shirt. So much so that it leaves a small strip of skin visible at the bottom. Oh my god, he looks so bloated, and already a few people have liked it, including -- fuck. Including Cora’s hot older brother, Derek.

Lydia had also posted a pic of him from earlier by the poolside, devouring a bowl of melty ice cream. Leaned forward like that, his belly looks even bigger, if that’s possible. Like he’s pregnant. Like he’s _fat_. And surprise, surprise, all his awful friends have liked that one, too. Along with Derek, of course. There’s a comment from Cora that says, _Lookin good, Stilinski ;)_

It’s not like Stiles minds, really. It’s just a little… embarrassing. Stiles shifts and his belly gurgles. He soothes it with a gentle hand, over the part that feels packed solid. _Fuck_ , he feels huge. The mound of Stiles’s belly is distended, tight and hot, and noticeable enough that he doubts that anyone can miss it, anymore. Stiles can’t stop feeling it.

He burps out some of the pressure, but it seems endless with so much food inside him. A little dazedly, he hears himself breathing hard, and he’s still massaging his gut, feeling the width of it. His fingers feel incredible against his skin, and his hips rise off the bed to press harder into his hand. He moans, feels the hard-on that never completely went away plump up in his shorts, reaches down to touch himself.

Even just the light, teasing pressure of his fingers makes him shudder. It’s almost too much with the feeling of his overstuffed gut weighing him down. Desperate, he tugs his shorts down so his dick is free, licks his hand sloppily and wraps it back around himself. And then he’s writhing, panting, and he feels better than he has in a long time.

It’s weird, maybe, to enjoy feeling like this, filled up and bloated from excess, but Stiles begins to stroke his dick in time with the hand rubbing his gut and he’s so completely overcome with sensation he stops thinking about anything except how good it is. Waves of heat wash over him, building to a crescendo and when Stiles comes he’s overwhelmed with the strength of it. His blood rushes through his veins and he shouts, coming onto his belly.

For a moment he blacks out, his brain shuts off, and when he comes back he settles easily into a deep feeling of contentment. Stiles slips into sleep and doesn’t wake up from his food coma until Scott knocks on his door hours later for dinner.

*** 

Scott and Allison drop Stiles off at home after a long drive back up the coast. His dad’s cruiser isn’t parked out front so there’s no one to greet him when he comes in.

Stiles drags himself exhaustedly up the stairs, drops off his duffel bag on his bed and means to go shower the salty air and sweat off his skin. But he stops when he sees himself in the full-length mirror on the inside of the bathroom door. His skin is tan and freckled, a slight burn on his nose and cheekbones, and his hair is messy and unstyled. But the thing he really notices as different: different than he’s ever seen on himself, is the way his t-shirt clings to his midsection.

It wasn’t as if he hadn’t noticed, but the difference is stark now that he’s really _looking_ at it. It’s not just the bloating that’s settled into his gut from so many days of feasting, but the way his waistband is digging into what Stiles can only describe as _love handles_. They’re small, just little, barely-there mounds of fat, but he’s never had them before.  

Stiles pokes at one experimentally, strangely fascinated. He tears off his shirt and takes another look. There’s no mistaking it. Stiles has _definitely_ gained weight. How much, he’s not sure. He knows there’s a scale on the floor behind him, but he can’t seem to take his eyes off his body, cataloguing the real, noticeable differences between how he looked just a week and a half ago and now.

He runs his hands over his slightly rounded belly and he gasps as his fingers sink slightly into a little bit of doughiness just below his belly button. Not the swollen, tight feeling from a few days ago, but squishy and soft. He squeezes it between his fingers and the tug in his gut returns, full volume. Suddenly he wants to eat, eat like he’s been eating, wants to see his belly swell up tight and round.

But wasn’t it time to stop that, now? He’d been indulging on his vacation, but he couldn’t keep eating like that forever or he’d get…

Dimly, Stiles realizes that he’s breathing hard, that his skin is flushed all the way down his chest and he’s chubbing up in his jeans, but he puts it out of his mind as much as he can. He turns around and steps on the scale with trepidation.

165 lbs.

_That can’t be possible_ , he thinks. How could he have gained almost 20 pounds in only nine days? He steps off and tries again but it still reads 165 lbs. Stiles gasps and braces himself on the counter.  

“That’s… not possible.”

A lot of it is probably water weight -- too much salty food, but how could the number be so _high_ ? It seems so far away from the 147 lbs. he had been; the thought of it makes him dizzy. He grasps at his belly, his sides, anywhere he finds a little extra padding in disbelief. He thinks about what would happen if he kept going at the rate he is, how _big_ he would get.

Stiles shakes his head as if to clear it. He turns on the shower and stumbles in without waiting for it to heat up. The water sluices coolly over his skin but it does nothing to get rid of the hard-on he’s had since he started looking at his body. Stiles grasps it desperately in one hand, barely noticing his other hand sliding down to feel out the new shape of his belly. He’s too wound up; wild thoughts tumble past his mind getting him closer and closer to the edge. 

Back at the cruise buffet, stuffing his face, his belly huge and swollen in his lap, eating ravenously, his clothes getting tighter and tighter, unable to contain him as he grows bigger, every bite filling him up just that much more. The roundness of his belly under his hand and the memories of feeling so incredibly _full_.

“ _Fuck_ , oh my god.” Stiles comes with a cry, collapsing back against the shower wall.

With sudden clarity, Stiles blinks his eyes open. Not for the first time, he’s shocked and vaguely embarrassed at the shit that had him coming so hard just moments ago, but this time he thinks he’s on another _level_ of weird. He dimly remembers jerking off a few times during the cruise, stuffed out of his mind and maybe a little drunk, so it’s no fluke; Stiles has this distinct feeling that it’s _something_. But he doesn’t know how to rationalize how he feels so he just… doesn’t.

 

He goes back to his life, as usual, only returning to his strange fantasies when it's all he can think about, and those thoughts always have him coming quicker, harder, better than anything else. It’s a little easier, now that he’s home. Stiles still has to make sure his dad eats well, so he doesn’t keep any of the good stuff in the house. Scott drags him out to play lacrosse every couple of days. And everything returns to normal, almost. 

The only tangible reminder is that persistent 13 pounds of pure fat that sticks to his middle like glue.

 


	2. Big Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek bites back a smile and rolls his eyes, relaxing ever so slightly. “You’re the one who dragged me here, Stiles.”
> 
> Stiles’s mouth drops open, indignantly. “You agreed! Come on, don’t be so grumpy. There’s _pancakes_.”
> 
> “Not for me.”
> 
> “What? Why not? That’s the Ruby’s Diner specialty, Derek. What would you even get _besides_ pancakes?”  
> 
> “Hmm,” Derek says, perusing the laminated placemat menu in front of him. “Probably the vegetarian omelet.”
> 
> “That-that’s _blasphemy_. Are you kidding? You’re kidding.”  
> 
> “I’m watching my diet.” Derek gives him a quick look up and down that makes Stiles’s blood run hot. “Not all of us eat like you, Stiles.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just as a note re: the fat shaming tag -- a few different characters make comments about Stiles's weight gain in this chapter, and not all of them are complimentary. That being said, at worst Stiles feels slightly embarrassed. Mostly he just likes it ;)

It’s Stiles’s 22nd birthday, and if he wants to spend it eating every single one of the cupcakes that Phyllis from across the street made him, than he fucking _will_. It’s not like he can leave them in the house for his dad to find. And honestly? Stiles wants them all to himself; they’re so damn good.

He balls up the wrapper of his seventh cupcake, throws it onto the plate and licks chocolate frosting from his fingers. With his other hand, he cradles his grumbling belly.

When Stiles crawled out of bed this morning, his dad dragged him out for a birthday brunch before he had to go into the station and Stiles gorged himself on cheesy eggs and hashbrowns and French toast and bacon. And since then he’s been eating pretty much nonstop, starting with a space brownie from the batch Malia made him for his trip back home.

That brownie turned into an extra large meat lovers pizza and cheese sticks and buffalo wings, a bag of family sized chips, and now a batch of cupcakes that Stiles is determined to finish off.

Stiles had spent the better part of his college career trying to keep the sneaky freshman 15 from escalating, but when he’s around food, sometimes he just can’t help himself. With how much he can put away these days, Stiles thinks graduating with 40 pounds extra will be getting off _light_. He hasn’t weighed himself in a while, but he knows he’s put on at least 15 more since Christmas, and it’s only March.

His metabolism is still quick enough that Stiles yo-yos up and down pretty regularly. He kept up an inconsistent workout routine all through college, which he's pretty proud of, so that kept off most of it, but every so often Stiles re-discovers how good it feels to let go like this and the pounds just pile right back on as if they never left.

He has to admit to himself, though, that he's gotten pretty big lately. Certainly the biggest he's ever been and likely? Closer to 200 pounds than he thought he’d ever be. He's been meaning to get a size up in all of his clothes, maybe two just to be on the safe side, but. Honestly, he kind of enjoys how big it makes him feel to be wrapped up tight in clothes that haven't fit well in months.

Stiles's belly is round, feels firm up top where it's stuffed full, but is layered with soft, doughy fat. He knows he’s not skinny anymore, but at times like these he has this feeling in his gut, drawing him inexorably towards the desire to get even bigger. It makes him nervous, how sometimes the desire overpowers him like this. Calling him to eat more, to grow.

He shakes himself out of it and opens his laptop, balances it on the crest of his stomach, which works pretty well when he’s leaning so far back. Stiles wonders how big he’d need to be to use his belly as a table no matter how he’s sitting and his breath hitches. He reaches around his computer to grab another cupcake and stuffs it in his mouth, using his other hand to scroll mindlessly through his dash.

It had taken him all of a week after joining Tumblr to find the kink corner of the website and his blog is an incoherent mix of bellies and porn and memes and Stiles ranting about video games and the DCU. Mostly bellies these days, if he’s honest. It’s easier for him to let go and really explore his kinky side seeing so many others do the same.

His account is fairly anonymous. No selfies, even just of his belly, though he’s been toying with the idea of posting some. He has a whole folder on his laptop, hidden and encrypted, filled with hundreds of pictures of his body, in various states of undress, in various states of stuffed, showcasing every pound he’s gained over the last few years. Secretly, Stiles loves looking at them, seeing how much he’s really grown. Because sometimes he barely notices, but when it’s right there in front of him, he can _see_ how much fatter he is.

Stiles opens up Photobooth, leans forward to place his laptop on the coffee table and snaps a couple of shots, his little gut spilling in between thick thighs, the fat on his chest folding under where the shadow of pecs used to be. It’s hot, he thinks. And he’s high enough that he doesn’t spend too much time debating with himself. He posts it without editing or over-thinking like he usually does, and shoves half a cupcake in his mouth.

The front door opens and Stiles panics, doesn’t have time to do anything but snap his laptop shut before Scott bursts into the living room. “Oh my god, dude. Give me a heart attack why don’t you.”

“I texted you earlier, bro.”

Stiles’s brain takes a second to click into place. “Oh yeah. Birthday dinner. Dude, what time is it?”

“5:15. Mom said it should be done in an hour, but we should head over now.” Scott takes a look around the remnants of Stiles’s binge and then at Stiles, where he’s still sprawled lazily on the couch. “Are you high right now?”

“Maybe,” Stiles grins. “Malia baked me some edibles since she knows I’m not crazy enough to smoke in the house.”

“That’s awesome, man.”

Stiles watches Scott’s eyes drift to the cupcake plate on the table and his whole face lights up like an adorable puppy. Scott plops down beside him, reaches out towards the cupcakes and says, “Dude, are these from that old lady across the street?”

Stiles bites his tongue and clenches his fists against the desire to slap Scott’s hands away. But he lets him have it, because Stiles is a good friend. He feels like he might be glaring as Scott takes a nice big bite.

“Yeah, Phyllis. She brought them over earlier. I swear they’re like even _better_ than normal. Like since I didn’t come home for break last year she’s making up for lost time with magical baking. It’s probably witchcraft.”

“I think you’re just stoned.”

“...Yeah, maybe.”

“So you and Malia. Are you guys still like, a thing?”

“No, nah, just buddies. Compadres.”

“Cool, cause, I know like, we don’t see each other as much anymore, but I fully expect you to keep me updated.”

“Yeah, Scotty, obviously. I swear you’re the first to know anything.”

Scott reaches for another cupcake and Stiles can’t stop himself this time. He swats at Scott’s arm ineffectually and says, “ _Dude_. You can’t have all my cupcakes, I’m serious.”

“You already had like most of them, dude, come on.”

Stiles tries to formulate a comeback but he ends up sputtering and making hand gestures to which Scott looks completely unimpressed. “But. It’s… my _birthday_.”

Scott rolls his eyes and raises his hands in surrender. “All right, fine.”

“Thank you. You’re a prince among men. And, hey, I’ll get you those cookies you like from that place. See? I can be generous and sharing and all that shit.”

“The last time you got me apology cookies you ate half of them before you even got to my house.”

“That’s--fine, okay. But can you blame me? They were awesome.”

“They _were_ awesome.”

“But not as awesome as these.” Stiles grabs the second to last cupcake off the plate and shoves as much of it in his mouth as he can.

“Bro.”

“I let you have one,” Stiles says with his mouth half full, “What more do you want from me?”

“Still don’t have to rub it in my face like that."  

Stiles snorts and pushes himself up. It’s strangely difficult against the weight of his belly, but he manages to wobble to his feet on the second try. “Come on, dude. I have to get dressed. Somehow I don’t think your mom would appreciate me showing up to dinner like this.”

He puts a hand on his waist and poses, gesturing to himself, shirtless and probably dusted with crumbs and smears of frosting, wearing only his softest, most ancient pair of pyjama pants.

“Probably not,” Scott grins.

He bounces up from the couch with ten times Stiles’s current agility and Stiles leads him to the stairs. He goes to jog up like he usually does, but his full stomach feels queasy from too much bouncing so he has to slow down halfway up. Scott is trailing behind him and he says, “You okay, bro?”

“Ugh,” Stiles hiccups, “Little full, I guess.”

“Dude, my mom is gonna be pissed you didn’t save room for your birthday dinner.”

Stiles pants a little and pauses at the top of the stairs. “It’s fine, Scott! You know me, I’m always hungry.”

“You know, I used to say I don’t know where you put it, but…”

Stiles laughs and says, “Fuck you, dude. Oh my god.” He walks down the hall to his room.

“It’s cool, I’m just saying. College has _clearly_ treated you well.”

“That it has, Scotty. That it has.” Stiles pats his belly proudly even as his face flushes. It’s not often that someone else brings up his weight but honestly he finds it a little hot, that people notice enough to say something. He thinks maybe he should be more embarrassed, or offended, or something. But Stiles knows Scott doesn’t mean anything by it.

“Put something on, dude, we gotta get going.”

“Yeah, yeah. What’s your mom making?" 

Stiles rummages around in his duffel bag for something sort of nice to wear to dinner. He doesn’t have many options, so he goes for a t-shirt and a plaid button down he bought over winter break.

“Enchiladas and that rice you like. If she tells you off for not eating it you’re on your own, dude.”

“Oh my _god_ , that sounds amazing.” Stiles slips out of his pajama pants and tugs on a pair of khakis with only a little difficulty. He has to hop a few times to get them all the way up to his hips, but all in all, not a terrible fit. He hopes. “It’s honestly not gonna be a problem, Scotty.”

Stiles sticks his tongue between his lips and sucks in, pulls the buttons closed and exhales. The fabric of his pants creaks just slightly, but he doesn’t think it’ll be an issue. He finally has to admit to himself there might be a problem when the button-down feels _way_ clingier than he remembered and he struggles for way too long trying to tuck the hem of his shirt in to make an attempt at being presentable. He can’t even see his belt as he does it under his gut, not when he’s this full.  

Stiles had barely even noticed how much he was putting away earlier, could barely even feel it, but the munchies clearly got to him. It’s obvious now, staring down at the mound of his belly, rounded out with an entire day’s worth of gorging. He eyes himself in the mirror for a second. He looks fat as hell and his outfit is not doing that any favors.

He feels sort of tingly and his blood is hot in his veins. All he wants to do is keep eying his belly, the way the buttons ripple all the way down, pulled just a little too tight. Test the weight of it in his hands, and feel how every inch of fat has settled on his body.

“All right, good to go.” Stiles tears his eyes away and skirts around Scott and out his bedroom door. He ignores the way his face feels hot and tries not to think about how he’ll look after dinner.

 

***

 

Stiles practically rolls out of the jeep when they park in the woods by Cora’s house. He’d almost _almost_ asked Scott to drive, that’s how stuffed he is. Scott does not take care of Roscoe the way he should, but Stiles feels fucking pregnant. And too full to party the way this party deserves.

Somehow he’d managed to scarf down four enchiladas, rice, and beans before calling it. And now, he’s kind of _almost_ (but not quite) regretting eating so much. The space brownie from earlier is clearly wearing off and his belly is a mess of indigestion. He’d had to shed his plaid in the car because the buttons were straining so hard he was afraid one of them would pop if he moved around too much.

Stiles waddles gingerly down the dirt road leading to the house, lined by the cars of people who are at the party already. Scott reaches out a hand to steady him. “Dude, are you okay?”

“I’m--” Stiles burps and hastily covers it with his hand. “Fine. I’m fine. Just need to get a beer or something, settle my stomach.”

“I don’t think that’s going to help?”

“Wh--It. It  _might_.”

Scott laughs at him. “Why do you always do this?”

“Ugh, I don’t know. It was so _good_. Scotty,” Stiles leans his shoulder so hard into Scott’s he stumbles a little to the side. “Scotty, carry me. I’m not gonna make it.”  

Scott stops and heaves a sigh, spreading his arms out. “All right, come on.” 

“Yes!” Stiles enthusiastically jumps on Scott’s back and weaves his arms around his shoulders. Scott grabs his thighs, stance faltering a little under Stiles’s weight.

“Dude, you’re fucking heavy.” 

“Shut up, I’m fair and dainty.” 

Scott snorts and hikes him further up. Stiles’s belly presses a little uncomfortably into Scott’s back, but it’s ten times better than having to walk on his own. And Scott’s piggyback rides are the best.

When they get to the porch Scott drops Stiles unceremoniously on his feet and they go inside without knocking. There are a few people scattered around, talking, drinking, but it’s early still and the party hasn’t really heated up. Stiles goes in search of the keg and by the time he comes back, Scott has found Kira.

Kira goes to Scott’s school and she’s _gorgeous_ and a total sweetheart and Scott is completely smitten in that way he gets where he’s incapable of thinking of anything else but writing sonnets about her hair.

Stiles talks to the lovebirds for all of three minutes before figuring out they’re barely listening to a thing he says, completely absorbed in each other. He rolls his eyes and nudges Scott with his elbow. Stiles says, “All right, catch you guys later,” with just enough innuendo and an exaggerated wink so Scott knows he’s not mad. 

Scott smiles, sheepishly and Stiles snorts, mouths, “Good luck.” He eases away from them, red solo cup in each hand, both Scott’s and his own. He double fists them, scanning the room for a familiar face. The beer is fizzy and lands solidly in his already-packed gut. He likes the way it feels, the warm, heavy stretch of it, so he quickly empties one cup, relishing the feeling of it filling his swollen belly up even more.

  
Scott was right, though; it doesn’t help settle his stomach. It gurgles relentlessly at him and he has trouble suppressing the little burps that want to make their way out. Finally he comes across Allison and Cora in the kitchen. “Hey, Stilinski!” Cora yells. “Happy fucking birthday, asshole.”

“Happy birthday, Stiles,” Allison adds. Stiles wraps an arm around her shoulders when he reaches them.

“Thank youuu. Thanks, Cora. Looks like it’s gonna be a hell of a party.”

“Absolutely. Turns out Lydia and I are the fucking party planning dream-team once we can agree on something.”

She waves boisterously at some people behind them and then thumps him on the shoulder as she walks over to meet them. “Have fun, dudes.”

Stiles ends up sticking close to Allison for awhile. She’s familiar; Stiles had always liked Allison, though they haven’t spent a lot of time together since she and Scott broke up. But she’s fun and she tolerates drunk Stiles better than most. What more could he ask for in a party companion?

Honestly though, big parties like this aren’t really his scene. Social anxiety and shit. But college gave him a lot of practice and he knows what works for him. Besides, Cora and Lydia had gotten caught up in planning and Stiles didn’t wanna cut back on anyone else’s fun. But after a couple hours of mingling and dancing and a few too many beers, Stiles needs some peace.

His skin shines with a layer of sweat, and his shirt keeps riding up, sticking to his skin and under the fat on his chest. It’s hot and he kind of wants to sit down. His stomach feels swollen, less stuffed but still filled with bubbly pressure. Stiles realizes he’s vaguely turned on by it, wants to run his hands over the bloated dome of his gut, but now isn’t really the time.

“Hey, Allie, I’m gonna go get some air,” he yells into Allison’s ear.

“Okay, let’s get some air then.” She grins at him and tugs him by the arm to the back door. It occurs to Stiles that she wants to stick by someone familiar, too, and he can’t really begrudge her that.

A few people are out on the deck, mostly smokers and their friends, but it’s much less crowded than inside. Stiles breathes in the cool night air and immediately relaxes. They end up sitting on the stairs down to the yard with Erica, Boyd, and Isaac.

Stiles doesn’t even think about it when Erica passes him a joint, just inhales and lets the smoke fill his lungs. By the time he thinks he should worry about his dad being able to smell it on him, it’s already too late. A few hits in and he’s sprawled out over the steps, looking up at the twinkling party lights Lydia used to decorate the yard, the stars that are so much easier to see out this far into the preserve. He feels heavy and rooted to the earth, tingly and numb, can barely follow the thread of the conversation, but it doesn’t matter because he’s smiling stupidly anyway.

Stiles loses track of time and how many joints they’ve been through, but he’s feeling too good to care. He pours some beer into his mouth, precariously, without lifting his head. Some drips down the side of his face, but he manages to catch the rest, draining his bottle. Stiles is incomprehensibly bloated, still, but he can’t really feel the contents of his stomach anymore. A part of him almost feels _starving_ , like even though it hasn’t been too long since he stuffed his gut full of enchiladas and his belly is rounded out with beer, it still wants _more_. Or maybe that’s just Stiles. Admittedly, he has been extra-greedy lately. Even sober. God, he’s really getting fat.

“I mean I wasn’t gonna say anything, but…” Isaac says.

That’s when Stiles registers he’d been speaking out loud, at least that last part, maybe. “Yeah, well. Everyone gains the freshman 15, right?”

Erica reaches over to tug down the hem of Stiles’s t-shirt. Stiles sputters and pushes her hand away. She laughs and says, “I don’t know about that. But it looks good on you, you’re all like, beefy. Total dadbod.”

Stiles laughs, feels his stomach jiggle with it, and says, “Thanks. Been working really hard on my physique lately, nice of you to notice.”

“What’s your secret?” Boyd asks, smirking.

“Carbs mostly. And cheese. And don’t be afraid of sugar, either.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Stiles hears the back door crash open and a voice bellow from behind him. “ _Cora_? What the hell is this?”

Stiles stays reclined, feeling fuzzy, but turns his head to see none other than Derek Hale, face creased in annoyance (Stiles would know, it's basically the only face he makes around him), hand around Cora’s arm. 

Stiles has never in his _life_ passed up an opportunity to get an eyeful of Derek Hale so he pushes himself into a sitting position, slow and liquidy. Cora seems perfectly calm in the face of getting caught and she rolls her eyes. “A party, brother dear. Surely you’ve heard of the concept.”

Derek crosses his arms. “Mom is gonna _kill_ you. You know that, right?”

“God, calm down. They’re never gonna know, okay? I’m gonna clean up tomorrow and they won’t be back until Sunday. It’s not a big deal.”

“They asked me to come check on you. They know something’s up. You haven’t been answering your phone.”

“I swear sometimes you guys act like I’m still in high school and not a college senior." 

“Maybe that’s because you _act_ like you’re still in high school... Do I smell weed?”  

Derek sniffs at the air and zeroes in on Stiles and the group of them sprawled across the steps. Stiles slowly lowers the hand still holding the joint and waves with the other.

“Of course,” Derek says, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“In my defense, this was theirs, not mine.” Stiles yells over to Derek, pointing to the others.

Isaac and Erica make indignant sounds, smacking his leg and kicking him, respectively but Stiles's gaze is hooked on Derek. Derek who’s glaring at him, piercing eyes scanning him up and down with quick little flickery movements. It makes Stiles feel weirdly exposed. He tugs down the hem of his shirt, finding that it had ridden up again. He feels heat spread across his face under the scrutiny. 

Derek rolls his eyes and says, “I don’t care. I really don’t,” before turning back to face his sister.

Cora’s voice turns pleading, sweet in that way that probably got her off the hook so many times being the adorable youngest sibling. “Come on, Derek, just cover for me, just this once. I always used to cover for you. Please? I’ll owe you one.”

Derek sighs, resigned. “You bet your ass you will.”

“You’re the best big brother in the _world_.”

“If mom and dad find out about me helping you, you’re dead meat.”

“Yeah, yeah. Relax, will you?” Cora smiles, self-satisfied, and slips back inside.

To Stiles’s surprise, Derek walks over to them instead of following Cora. Stiles holds up the joint and lighter as an offering to the muscled god looming above him. “Hey, Derek. Welcome to the party.”

Derek smirks. “I should confiscate that.”

“Jesus, Derek, don’t be such a square.” Erica draws a sloppy square shape in the air.

Derek looks up at the sky as if asking for strength, and Stiles spends what feels like several minutes admiring the twinkling party lights reflecting in Derek’s eyes. “Fuck it,” Derek says.

He sits down on the top step next to Stiles and Stiles grins helplessly, heart racing just from Derek’s arm brushing lightly against his. Derek holds his hand out for the joint and Stiles hands it over happily. “So what were we talking about?” Erica says.

Derek sets the joint between his lips and relights it, inhaling deeply. Stiles is too stoned not to stare. He’s so beautiful.

“We were talking about how fat Stilinski got,” Isaac says, without missing a beat.

Derek coughs out a lungful of smoke and Stiles glares, open-mouthed at Isaac. The have a silent conversation in which Stiles tries to convey, with his face and flailing hands, _please, god, do not embarrass me in front of the hottest person I’ve ever met_. He isn’t sure the message gets across, but Isaac’s smirk fades into an eye-roll so Stiles is pretty sure it does.

“What,” Derek coughs.

Stiles pats him on the back. “You okay, buddy? Been awhile, huh?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“I don’t know about you guys,” Allison interjects, “But all that talk about Stiles’s diet secrets really made me crave pancakes.”

“Oh my god, _yes_ ,” Stiles says. “Fuck. We should get some.”

“Stiles, it’s past midnight,” Derek says, sounding vaguely amused.

“That, my friend, is why god made 24 hour diners.”

“I could go for some pancakes,” Boyd says.

“Is anyone here sober enough to drive?” Allison asks. 

One by one, they all turn to Derek. Only one hit in, he should be fine. Stiles puts on his best set of doe-eyes and says, “Derek. Please.”

“No.”

“Come on! Otherwise we’ll just walk. Bunch of drunk teenagers walking in the woods, you never know what might happen.” Stiles ticks off the most likely options on his fingers. “Bears. Mountain lions. Axe murderers. Werewolves. The possibilities are _endless_ , Derek.”

 “You watch too many horror movies.”

“Come on, dude. You’ll only be saving us from ourselves--”

“And the werewolves.”

“Exactly! And it’s my _birthday_. So you should totally be nice to me.”

Derek sighs the deepest and most dramatic sigh Stiles has ever heard, and says, “Fine.”

A cheer erupts from Allison, Erica, and Isaac. Boyd stays stoically silent but looks just as pleased.

“Oh my god, yes!” Stiles pumps his fist in the air. “Are we gonna take the Camaro? Please say yes.”

Derek stands up and stalks across the yard, making for the front of the house. “Don’t make me regret this.”

Stiles’s friends run ahead of him, racing towards Derek's car and momentarily Stiles jogs to catch up with them, but the movement sends a fresh wave of pressure through his gut into his throat. So he lets him take the lead. The far, far lead. He texts Scott, _Dude meet us at the diner by the park. Unless you’re too busy ;)_

Stiles is a little breathless by the time he reaches Derek, leaned with his arms folded against his _Camaro_. It's more beautiful than he remembers. “Oh my _god_ ,” Stiles groans, petting her shiny black hood. “Hey baby. You're so pretty.”

Derek snorts and Stiles looks up at him in surprise. He's preening, Stiles can tell, but he rolls his eyes and says, “Get in, Stiles.”

“Don’t be jealous, Derek. You’re pretty, too.” Stiles winks and peers inside the car.

Erica, Boyd and Isaac are snug in the backseat already, which leaves Stiles and Allison to try and fit somewhere. Allison pushes the passenger's seat back upright and shoves down on Stiles's shoulders hard enough that he squawks and sort of collapses into it. Before he knows it he's got an armful of Allison who's perched on his lap.

“Ohh, you're so comfy.” She curls into him and smiles, award-winning and dimpled.

Stiles grins but Derek says, “No. Absolutely not.” He looks so severe Stiles finds it hilarious and he can’t stop laughing.

“What, why?” Allison says.

“I'm not getting pulled over. Go sit in the back, the windows are tinted.”

“Ugh fine.” She clambers over Stiles and between the front seats with surprising grace, though she does manage to land a kick to his belly. Allison sprawls out over the three in the back and says, “Better?”

“Much,” Derek says, smugly.

Stiles rubs his gut in the place where Allison kicked him, gets distracted feeling how soft it is to touch, how warm and swollen it is. He squirms in his seat, pulls the seatbelt over himself and enjoys how big he feels with his gut spilling over top of the belt around his waist.

The four in the back are cackling and talking, but Stiles’s attention is focused on other things. Like how nice Derek’s forearms look gripping the steering wheel of his super-hot car. And how every square inch of Stiles’s body jiggles uncontrollably as they drive down the gravel road leading away from Cora’s house. It shakes up the beer filling his stomach, and he can feel the liquid move around, sloshing gently.

Stiles finds himself breathing too quickly. He’s been hovering on the edge of arousal basically all day and the knowledge that he’s going to be filling up his gut _again_ in just a few minutes is almost unbearable.

He catches Derek staring at him at a red light, probably having noticed Stiles’s uncharacteristic silence. “What?” Stiles says.

“Nothing,” Derek says, too quickly, stepping on the gas so hard the tires screech a little.

“Whoa!” Allison protests from the back. “Ease up, will you?”

“Sorry,” Derek says, sounding pinched but not sorry at all.

Stiles realizes that Derek hadn’t been looking at his face, but at his body. He wonders what Derek thinks of him. It’s been awhile since they’ve seen each other, maybe a year or more. And Stiles has _definitely_ grown since then. He knows it’s unlikely Derek thinks he looks good like this, or better even, like Stiles does, deep down. But he can’t help but wonder.

 

***

 

At the diner, they sit in one of the big half-round booths, crammed together. Stiles is on an end, across from Derek, who looks vaguely uncomfortable with his decision to come.

“Wow, don’t look so excited to be here, Derek. I know you’re having the time of your life, right now, but really. Tone it down.”

Derek bites back a smile and rolls his eyes, relaxing ever so slightly. “You’re the one who dragged me here, Stiles.”

Stiles’s mouth drops open, indignantly. “You agreed! Come on, don’t be so grumpy. There’s _pancakes_.”

“Not for me.”

“What? Why not? That’s the Ruby’s Diner specialty, Derek. What would you even get _besides_ pancakes?”  

“Hmm,” Derek says, perusing the laminated placemat menu in front of him. “Probably the vegetarian omelet.”

“That-that’s _blasphemy_. Are you kidding? You’re kidding.”  

“I’m watching my diet.” Derek gives him a quick look up and down that makes Stiles’s blood run hot. “Not all of us eat like you, Stiles.”

He isn’t sure why Derek’s teasing tone makes him suddenly, inappropriately turned on, but he’s about half a second from popping a boner. Which he hasn’t done in public since he was 18, thank you very much. Stiles tries to cover his arousal with a laugh but it sounds strained even to his own ears. “Wh-how do you know how I eat?!”

“Did you forget I follow you on Instagram? I swear half of your pictures are of food.”

“I’d say it’s more like seventy-five percent, at least,” Allison chimes in, helpfully.

Derek grins and holds his hand out as if to say, _you see_? Stiles finds him infuriatingly attractive.

Stiles sighs. “Well, whatever,” he says. “Don’t judge me. I’m a growing boy.”

Stiles watches as half a dozen sets of eyes fall to his midsection and he sees Derek’s face flush slightly, visible even through all the glorious stubble. His friends snicker and try not to outright laugh. He can see Isaac shaking with it and covering his face.

“Not like that! Fuck. I meant. You know what I meant!”

Isaac lets out an uncontrollable bark of laughter. Grinning, Erica leans her elbows on the table and says, “I would never judge you, big boy. You can eat _whatever_ you want.”

Stiles will deny the rush he gets at being called ‘big boy’ to his dying day. “Thanks? I think.”

He can see Derek studying the menu, intently, and Stiles follows suit. The thing about the menu at Ruby’s Diner is that it’s covered with mouth-watering pictures. Suddenly, Stiles remembers how hungry he is and he’s practically drooling, thinking about getting any one of those dishes. All of them, even.

When the waitress comes to take their orders, Stiles, predictably, gets unlimited pancakes, even though he’s pretty sure his so-called friends are gonna give him shit about it. No one says anything, but if Erica’s not-so-sly smirk, Isaac’s hand over his mouth, and Derek’s persistent flush and unwillingness to meet Stiles’s eyes is anything to go by, his order doesn’t go by unnoticed.

Strangely, it doesn’t make Stiles feel shy about it; he knows they’re just teasing him. If anything, it just makes him feel heated. Hungry. Idly, he wonders how many stacks he could go through if he were really trying. If he were alone, maybe, or even with someone who _liked_ it.

He knows those people exist, has talked briefly to a few online, but it seems like something that’d be impossible to find in real life. It doesn’t stop Stiles from thinking about it.

When the waiter sets the first stack of three plate-sized pancakes in front of him, Stiles licks his lips, feeling greedy. He reaches for the warm maple syrup and drenches them, watching the generous square of butter melt over top, seeping into the bread. Before he put the first perfectly sweet, buttery, fluffy bite in his mouth, Stiles fully intended on savoring them. But every piece melts on his tongue and he finds himself shoveling forkfuls of pancake into his mouth, barely stopping for breath.

He’s only a couple of bites from the end when he realizes how embarrassingly quickly he’d inhaled his food. His mouth is full of deliciousness, he’s almost ready to order another stack, and Stiles looks around and realizes all his friends’ plates are barely dented. Derek’s omelet looks like it’s barely been touched. Even Allison’s breakfast sampler is only half eaten, and she can usually _almost_ keep up with Stiles. The little belly pouch she’d gained during college is evidence enough of that.

But then, Stiles’s own belly pouch couldn’t even be called a pouch anymore so much as a small beer gut, especially so completely bloated like it is now.

Touching his belly has become a subconscious habit at this point, so it’s not really surprising to him that when he looks at Derek’s face, he follows his wide eyes down to where Stiles’s fingers are planted under the overhang of his gut, caressing bare skin where the hem of his t-shirt doesn’t quite reach when the fabric gets tucked under his chest. It’s not surprising at all, but it does send a wave of heat rushing to Stiles’s face and he snatches his hand away, trying not to feel embarrassed.

He can feel the weight of Derek’s eyes but Stiles avoids them, trying to signal to the waiter to come over so he can order another stack. Stiles won’t let a little thing like that upset his plans to gorge on breakfast food, after all. He’s still got that nagging _hunger_ in his belly, despite the fact that he can feel how much is already filling his stomach.

“Finally,” Isaac says, “Now we know how to get Stilinski to shut up.”

“Oh, ha ha. Asshole.”

“Really, I don’t think I’ve ever heard you be silent for so long in my life.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Did you ever think maybe I have to keep up the conversation because I don’t want to have to listen to the shit that you have to say?" 

He hears Derek chuckle under his breath and mentally high-fives himself, feeling smug. Isaac’s leaned back in his seat, food basically forgotten and he’s got an entire two triangles of french toast left on his side plate, unloved. Stiles reaches across the table and spears them both on his fork, bringing them back to his own plate before Isaac can react. “Hey!” He’s got both slices halfway in his mouth, choking them down before Isaac can make a move to get them back. “What the hell, Stiles?”

It’s a few seconds before Stiles can speak around the bread filling his mouth. “Snooze you lose, bro,” he says, before smothering a burp behind his fist.

“You’re an awful person. I’m gonna tell Scott.”

“Pretty sure Scott already knows that, but do what you gotta do, dude. Like you were gonna finish all that anyway.”

“Maybe I wanted to take it to-go.”

“French toast is weird leftover. If anything, I saved you.”

“Wow, thank you so much.”

Stiles points finger-guns at Isaac and winks. “Anytime, buddy.”

Stiles leans back, looks around the table at the others’ food and is immediately jealous. God, it all looks amazing. Stiles is almost surprised by his own greediness, but if the last couple of days have taught him anything it’s not to underestimate portions. Before Stiles can mourn the lack of food in front of him too much, the waiter sets a fresh, steaming hot stack of fluffy pancakes in front of him.

He thinks, maybe, this time, he should take it a little easy. At least easi _er_. But one bite in and he’s already hooked, impatient to fill his belly, always wanting more. “Mmm,” Stiles moans into a mouthful. 

Erica shakes her head, face an interesting combination of amusement and alarm. “Jesus Christ, Stiles, I’ve never seen anyone get the munchies this bad before.”

Stiles pauses just long enough to chew threw enough pancake that he can say, “You haven’t even seen half of it, honestly. I’ve been fucking insatiable lately, I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“So, so many things,” Isaac says. 

Stiles rolls his eyes and inhales his food with ferocity in place of a comeback. It’s no time at all before his fork scrapes feebly at a syrupy plate, seeking out the last crumbs. He’s starting to feel heavy with too much food, full but not quite stuffed. Or anywhere near it, if Stiles is honest. He craves more, could easily tackle another stack or two, he thinks.

Allison nudges him with her elbow. “Hey, you want the rest of my bacon?”

“Are you serious? Oh my god, _yes_.”

Allison grins at him and dumps four tantalizing strips of bacon on Stiles’s plate.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Stiles says, with feeling. “You’re a queen among peasants.” He leans over to plant a sloppy, syrupy kiss on Allison’s cheek and she giggles, pushing him away.

The crunchy saltiness of the bacon is a welcome contrast against his pancakes and they’re gone before he’s ready to part with them. A gurgle makes its way up his throat and he smothers the sound behind a fist. Would it be too gluttonous to order more bacon, he thinks? Probably.

Erica and Boyd are still grazing, but Allison Isaac and Derek look finished. Stiles considers whether or not it would be rude to get more, but decides, _fuck it_. He paid for unlimited pancakes, he’s getting enough pancakes to fill him to his _limit_. They can all deal. This decision has nothing whatsoever to do with the strange rush he gets at the idea of them all having to watch and wait as Stiles demolishes enough portions of food to feed each one of them another entire meal.

He flags over the waiter again, but to Stiles’s surprise, he’s not the only one who orders something. Derek gets hash browns with cheese and sausage, a far cry from the vegetarian omelet he claimed he needed for his “diet.” Why Derek would ever need to watch his weight is beyond Stiles, but he’s curious, and strangely pleased that Derek’s resistance has been worn down a little. “What happened to watching your diet, Hale? Was the sight of all this delicious breakfast too much for you?”

Derek’s face is a mask of defiance hiding the amusement Stiles can see dancing behind his eyes. “I can have a cheat day if I want to.”

“Hey, no arguments here, dude. You can have anything you want.” Stiles falters towards the end when he hears how much his teasing sounds like a poorly-concealed innuendo.

“Oh yeah?” Derek says, smirk teasing at the edges of his lips.

Stiles doesn’t quite know what to say, but the way Derek is looking at him is making him sweat. He feels heat flood down his neck. “Um. Yeah?”

“Thanks, I appreciate that.”

Erica snorts and mouths, “Subtle,” at him from across the table.

Stiles is grateful when the silence is interrupted by a new stack of pancakes and he busies himself with pouring the last of the syrup all over them. Just like the last two times, Stiles powers through his food too quickly. He’s a little afraid if he slows down he’ll start to feel the fullness that’s creeping up on him the more he devours. Halfway in he starts to flag, feeling sluggish and bloated, gut sitting heavily in his lap when he’s leaned forward like this. But it’s not too much effort to finish it off. Stiles closes his mouth over a hiccup that threatens to give away how full he really is.

Still, he eyes the hashbrowns across from him, barely a third gone. They look so cheesy and fatty, the perfect contrast to so much sweetness and Stiles _wants_. If Derek is just going to let them go to waste like that Stiles is going to have to take drastic measures.

He weighs in his mind how much humiliation he’s willing to suffer in order to get his hands on them. It’s a surprisingly easy decision to come to. “Are you gonna eat that?” Stiles asks, pointing his fork at Derek’s plate.

Derek’s grin is sharp, slightly terrifying and hot in equal measures. “It’s all yours.”

Derek slides over the plate easily, not even putting up a cursory fight, and Stiles is taken aback. “Um. Thanks." 

“Don’t mention it.” 

“It’s not like, poisoned or anything, is it?”

Rolling his eyes, Derek says, “Yes, Stiles. It’s poisoned.”

Stiles looks at the others and says, “If I drop dead, you all know who did it.”

Tentatively, Stiles picks up a cheesy forkful, small piece of sausage perched on top, and puts it in his mouth. Stiles moans, helplessly. It’s exactly what he wanted. “Thank god for your terrible appetite, Derek. This is perfect.”

Derek’s still got a half-smirk on his face and before Stiles can figure out why, Erica says, “Seriously, Stiles, how much _can_ you eat?”

“I’m not even sure. A lot,” Stiles mumbles through a mouthful.

“I’m almost impressed.”

“I can’t tell if I’m impressed or horrified,” Isaac says.

Derek makes an indecisive noise. “I don’t know. Three stacks of pancakes isn’t _that_ much.”

Stiles feels the sudden urge to defend his honor. “ _And_ bacon, _and_ your hashbrowns.”

“And my french toast,” Isaac mutters.

“ _And_ Isaac’s french toast. Like you have any room to talk, anyway, Mister _Vegetarian Omelet_.”

“Sure. I’m just not impressed.” 

Stiles makes some indignant noises that won’t quite formulate themselves into words. “Wh-”

“I mean, all this bragging and you’re done already?” 

“Who said I was done?”

Derek shrugs and glances down at Stiles’s plate, still plenty full since he’s been talking more than eating.

“Well stop _distracting_ me, then.” Stiles angrily shoves so much in his mouth that it doesn’t quite fit and he struggles for a few seconds trying to chew it down.

“This is disgusting, and yet I can’t look away,” Isaac says. Boyd makes a sound of agreement.

When Stiles has finally shoved the last of his food down his throat, he’s teetering on the edge of too-full, stomach grumbling so loudly he’s sure they can all hear, but still not quite painful. He holds his hands out to display his empty plate and says, “ _Well_?”

“Well what?” Derek says, as if he doesn’t know _exactly_ what.

“I hate you. You’re the worst.”

“Hey, I gave you my hashbrowns, you shouldn’t speak to me like that.”

“But you insulted my _honor_ , Derek. I’m wounded.”

“Sorry, Stiles, but you’re gonna have to do better than that if you want to impress me.”

“Well what would I need to do, oh Judgmental One?”

Derek shrugs like it’s no big deal, but Stiles is overcome with the need to show Derek what he can really do. Stiles hadn’t been intending on glutting himself even _this_ much in front of so many other people, but. With that kind of taunting, how is Stiles supposed to just let it go? Especially when he’d love nothing more than to fill himself so so tight with food he can’t get up.

When the waiter passes by to refill their drinks, Stiles orders another stack of pancakes. The waiter’s eyes widen in surprise, and flick down, briefly taking in Stiles’s belly, which he’s sure must be bordering on obscene at this point. “Sure,” he says. “They’ll be right out.”

“Jesus. Are you really gonna make us sit through more of this?” Isaac says. Surprisingly, though, he’s looking straight at Derek as he says it, as if it’s all his fault. In a way, it is, he supposes, though it’s unlike Isaac to miss an opportunity to yell at Stiles.

“Yes! I am!” Stiles says brightly, anyway. “So get comfy, I’m not done yet.”

Isaac sighs, resigned. Derek hums thoughtfully and props himself up to reach into the pocket of his ridiculously tight jeans which only highlight Derek’s toned physique in the same way Stiles’s highlight his flabby one. He pulls out a $20 bill and slaps it onto the formica tabletop. “I bet you won’t be able to finish.” 

There's no way around it; Stiles is _offended_. To his core. To think he harbors any mushy, good feelings towards the traitor in front of him is just, well. _Offensive_. His jaw drops in righteous fury as Isaac chimes in, “Yeah I’m gonna have to agree, you look like you might explode if you eat any more.”

“I will _take_ that action,” Stiles says, already lifting his butt off the bench to reach for the wallet in his back pocket. The movement stretches his stomach unpleasantly and Stiles groans before slamming his wallet on the table. He rummages through all his receipts and ticket stubs before he comes up with the crisp $20 bill his babcia gave him for his birthday. He’s gonna win it back, and _then some_. 

Erica and Boyd don’t have any cash on them, but Allison has some tip money from her waitressing job and Isaac is weird and usually pays in cash instead of credit. Stiles doesn’t know why but it creeps him out.

“I’m with Stiles,” Allison says, and Stiles is warmed from the inside out.

“Have I ever told you you’re wonderful? Because you are. And you’re about to be 20 dollars richer.”

“I have no doubt.” She smiles slyly. “You forget I have up-close-and-personal experience with your eating habits.” Stiles suddenly flashes back to four years earlier when he used that cruise vacation as an excuse to gorge himself. His first real experience with gluttony. Allison points a finger at Derek and Isaac. “You’re both going down.”

“Damn right they are.” Stiles holds his palm out for a high five, and Allison smacks him so hard it stings and he has to shake his hand out. “Ow.” 

Derek snorts, doubtfully. “I’ll believe that when I see it.” 

When the waiter sets down Stiles’s fourth plate of pancakes, he dives in with a fraction of the restraint he’d shown earlier, shoving food in his mouth in a competitive frenzy. It’s tougher this time, no doubt about that. Every bite lands solidly in Stiles’s already-packed, churning gut and he’s dragging in labored breaths between mouthfuls. The sticky sweetness is a little overwhelming. It hurts, almost, how stuffed he is, but it does nothing to make him stop. He likes it, the dull ache spreading through his belly, and more than that, now he has something to prove.

Stiles looks up every so often, catches Derek’s eye and sees the challenge there. He knows Derek is watching. Even as he’s talking with the others, his gaze flits over to Stiles too often. Stiles doesn’t know why. Maybe he really thinks Stiles can’t do it, or maybe he’s caught up in the challenge, or maybe Derek really just likes taunting him that much, but whatever it is it spurs Stiles on like nothing else ever has. He’s almost as greedy for Derek’s eyes on him as he is for the feeling of impossible fullness stretching out his belly.

Stiles has to pause for a drink, to catch his breath. He wants to lean back and stroke his belly, unbutton his pants where he can feel them digging painfully into the doughy underside of it. It’s unbearable to think he’s going to have to wait until he gets home, but there’s something hot about it, too. Stiles knows he’s going to look ridiculous waddling out of the restaurant, belly swollen to its max and nothing left to the imagination thanks to how tight his clothes are. He feels _huge_.

“Don’t tell me you’re finished already?” Derek says, voice caramelly and deep.

The teasing propels Stiles forward and he’s got an enormous forkful of three layers of pancakes before he says, “Not a chance, dude.”

“You sure? Looks like you’re slowing down a little there, big guy.” 

And just like that, Stiles goes from low level turned on to might-have-to-excuse-himself hot. He would literally kill to have Derek call him that all the time, whisper encouragement like he desperately wants Stiles to keep going. Stiles might have blacked out for a couple of seconds. “Just taking a break.” 

“Good,” Derek says. Easy, like he’s back to only mildly interested.

Stiles is sure he’s flushed all the way down his chest, bright hot red. He can feel it in his cheeks. He can feel the way his stomach protests and his heart is beating too fast from excitement and sugar overload. But it’s almost too easy the way the rest of his meal slides down into his stomach. And it’s totally worth it when Stiles raises up his arms in triumph. Isaac groans, lamenting his lost 20 bucks, and Derek says those sweet, sweet words. “Okay, Stiles. I’m impressed.”

“Yeah! You better be, asshole.” Stiles’s stomach lurches and leans back in the booth seat with finality, rests his hands across his belly in a paltry gesture of comfort. He burps before he has a hope of trying to suppress it, but any embarrassment Stiles might have felt is completely overridden by the thrill of victory and the pleasant tingly sensation rushing through his overfed body.

Allison holds her hand out for a high five, and Stiles swats it tiredly, barely catching his fingertips on her palm. “Suckers,” She says, reaching over to gather their winnings. She deposits two 20s underneath the hem of Stiles’s t-shirt. He wonders when it had ridden up so high.

“Ugh, I think I’m done with pancakes for awhile. Maybe forever.”

 

Even though he lost, Derek still looks so damn pleased with himself, and Stiles cannot for the life of him figure out why. On the way out of the restaurant, after they all pay, and Stiles manages to heave his body out of the booth, his curiosity gets the best of him. “You’re looking awfully chipper for a guy who just lost 20 bucks.”

Derek screws his face up trying to wipe the ever-present smile away. It doesn’t quite work. “What? I’m not chipper.”

“That weird smile on your face says otherwise.”

“Whatever. I’m gonna head to the bathroom,” Derek says, tossing Stiles his keys. “Don’t fuck up my car.”

“What could I _possibly_ do to your car in like five minutes?” 

“I’ve learned not to underestimate you.”

“Ha ha.” Just for that, Stiles almost climbs into the driver's’ seat himself just to piss Derek off. But he decides not to out of the goodness of his heart. And his complete lack of energy due to the bowling ball sized heaviness weighing down his gut. Instead he checks his phone. He has a couple texts from Scott and he feels a little guilty. He knows he left the guy hanging without a ride and Stiles has been...preoccupied.

_Nah, it’s cool man have fun._

_Kira’s giving me a ride!! See you tomorrow dude._

Stiles sends back the tongue and eggplant emojis.

 

***

 

Derek drops everyone else back off at the party, but Stiles needs to lie down kind of desperately. Not to mention he’s _aching_ for some Special Stiles Time.

“So, uh, sorry to ask but would you mind dropping me at my house? I don’t think I’m good to drive yet.”

Derek rolls his eyes, but that ever-present amusement is still lurking under Derek’s features. “Yeah no kidding. Pretty sure all that beer is still in your system, no matter how many pancakes you ate.” 

“Even if it’s an _impressive_ amount of pancakes?” Stiles grins.

“Yeah, even then.”

Stiles directs Derek to his house, rambling a little, like he does when he’s inebriated. Or, well, usually, actually. When he doesn’t have his mouth full of a few too many pancakes. They’ve always had a light sort of banter, Derek and Stiles. A repartee that Stiles can admit is sort of a turn on. It’s one of the many reasons Stiles has had a crush on Derek for so long. He tries with all his might to avoid thinking about how much worse it’s gotten over the course of just one night.

Eventually, though, Derek pulls in front of Stiles’s house and reluctantly, Stiles unbuckles his seatbelt and grabs the door handle. “Thanks for the ride, man. I’m sure hanging out with your little sister’s friends wasn’t exactly how you wanted to spend your night.”

The tiniest shadow of a smile appears on Derek’s face and he says, “It wasn’t so bad.”

Stiles grins helplessly, feels his pulse pounding. “Cool. I’ll--I’ll see you later, then.”

Stiles cracks the door and Derek says, “Wait.”

He reaches into the backseat and Stiles holds his breath as Derek’s arm brushes against his. “Here.” Derek throws a little to-go box on Stiles’s lap. “Happy birthday, Stiles.”

Stiles stares, mouth gaping at Derek for seconds too long. Derek averts his eyes and Stiles opens the box. It’s a big slice of chocolate pie, a little orange birthday candle stuck in the middle, partially squishing the pie where the box had knocked it over. “Thanks,” Stiles breathes, for some reason suddenly overwhelmed. When he looks up Derek is flushed delicately across his cheekbones, hot red on the tips of his ears. Stiles feels an overpowering urge to kiss him. But he doesn’t.

“It’s just pie,” Derek says.

“This is awesome. Don’t devalue our friendship like that.”

Derek rolls his eyes, still blushing warm pink, and the smile on Stiles’s face is so wide it hurts his cheeks. He swings the door open and clutches the little pie box like a lifeline. “Bye, Derek.”

He doesn’t look back even though Derek keeps idling on the street until Stiles gets in safely. He shuts the door behind him and leans back against it, breath shaking on an exhale. Now that he’s out of the prying eyes of his friends, and _Derek_ , whatever he is, Stiles caresses a hand across his belly. It’s tight and full, gurgling wildly, and more than slightly uncomfortable. Stiles really needs to sit down.

He stumbles across the living room to pick up the last of the cupcakes he’d eaten earlier and his laptop. It’s well past two AM., and Stiles’s dad should be at Melissa’s tonight, so thankfully there’s no one home to witness him in this state, slightly drunk, shirt riding up helplessly over the the bloated dome of his gut.

When Stiles makes it to his room and collapses in his desk chair, out of breath, he thinks, _finally_. He sucks in as much as he can and unbuttons his pants, letting his belly fill the space and zipper fall down. Stiles runs his fingers delicately over the ridged skin where the waistband had been digging in painfully all night. And he’s panting, sprawled out in his chair like he’s been running instead of just overeating so much he can barely move anymore.

He opens his laptop and pulls up Tumblr for something to get off to. The first thing he notices is that his activity is way up. He realizes he’d totally forgotten all about the pics he’d posted earlier. The set has a couple hundred notes, already, and there are three asks in his inbox. Stiles hardly ever gets asks unless it’s someone telling him off for something. The first one is just an anon. _Kik?_ it says. Stiles deletes it.

The second is from a mutual by the name of wolf-it-down. He posts mostly pics of other gainers, but none of himself, to Stiles’s dismay. Stiles has been nursing a weird internet crush on him ever since he got into an argument with Stiles over _Batman vs. Superman_.

_Nice to finally see what you look like. You never told me you were hot._

Stiles grins to himself, preening. He publishes it with the reply, _You never asked, dude ;)_ and tags it, _#be nice to see you return the favor… #just saying_.

The third message is from someone Stiles doesn’t recognize and he hovers over their URL to see that their blog is filled with porn gifs. It reads, _How much do you weigh tubby?_ Instantly, Stiles is filled with curiosity. He tries to bolt to his feet but it’s more of a struggle than he anticipated. Stiles staggers to his bathroom, steps on the scale with blood rushing through his veins. 

210.4. Stiles is two-hundred and ten point four pounds. _Fuck_ , he thinks. He feels his stomach bottom out in surprise and want and _eagerness_.

That’s the moment that Stiles knows he’s not going to stop, that he craves this more than he’d even realized, and he _knows_ , deep down in his bones, that he’s only going to get fatter.

Stiles has chubbed up a little in his khakis, but he’s too curious to see what people have said about him. He goes back to his desk, surprised-but-not at how well his pants have stayed up, even unbuttoned and unzipped. He tugs them off impatiently before he sits down to reply to the porn blog. Then he goes to the notes on his photoset, reads all the tags and reblogs. And all those comments make him feel, well. Fat. Desired.

Another ask appears in his inbox, and immediately Stiles opens it. It’s a submission. From wolf-it-down. _Just for you. I hope you’re happy. Don’t publish please?_

Stiles is greeted with a photo of the most perfect, fuzzy, muscular torso, a trail of dark hair leading down a flat stomach and into black boxer briefs, lit gently by soft lighting. Wolf it Down is written like a tattoo across his lower belly in surprisingly neat block letters, so Stiles knows it’s him and not some random picture he found. Well, unless the guy is really amazing at Photoshop.  

 _Dude_ , Stiles sends through the chat, _You have no idea how happy I am. I’m drooling over here what the fuck_. Helplessly, Stiles thinks of someone like this, someone sexy and interesting appreciating Stiles’s chub, watching him get fatter, the weight difference between them increasing with every extravagant meal Stiles eats.

Helplessly, Stiles thinks of Derek.

He shakes himself out of it, trying to put Derek out of his mind. _Glad you like it_ , wolf-it-down replies. _Do you take requests by any chance?_

Intrigued, Stiles sends back, _Sure, dude, hit me_.

Impatiently, Stiles waits for his message. He taps his fingers on his desk, tries to distract himself with whatever’s on his dash. Stiles is chewing nervously on his fingernails when his stomach gurgles, loudly. He catches sight of the takeout box Derek had given him and pretends his heart doesn’t swell with the thought of Derek giving him a birthday gift. Pretends the fact that it’s food, more food after everything he’d already eaten, everything Derek had _watched_ him eat, doesn’t play right into his deepest fantasies. He doesn’t succeed.

Stiles takes the box in his hands and opens it, inhaling the rich, sweet, chocolatey scent and fumbles around his desk drawer for a lighter. Once he has the flame flickering to life, Stiles racks his brain for a wish to make. He doesn’t believe in wishes, not really, but the one that sticks in his mind has him grinning, wildly. _I wish to get really, really fat,_ Stiles thinks at the candle melting wax on top of his pie.

He blows out the flame and doesn’t hesitate before pulling out the candle and sucking all the chocolate off the end. Stiles forgot to bring a fork so he picks the whole slice up with his hands and takes a bite. He wants to savor the play of flavors on his tongue, almost as much as he wants to inhale it, greedily. He settles for a combination. Huge bites chewed slowly, methodically, while stray chocolate filling and crumbs drip down his chin, onto the shirt covering his tight, full belly. He thinks of Derek watching him eat, cleaning Stiles up with his tongue. 

Stiles is hard. Harder still as the pie fills up every available bit of space inside his distended stomach, making him bigger, bigger.

When he’s licked the chocolate from his fingers, Stiles looks at his laptop to find a new message waiting. _Would you consider filming a video? I’d love to see you playing with your gut_.

Stiles licks his lips and types, _Absolutely_. _One fat gut vid coming right up_ _;)_

He’s thought about it before, of course. More than a few videos are in his secret folder next to the thousands of pictures, but Stiles wants to film a new one. He’s never been this full, this fat, before. All of those previous videos would pale in comparison to how he looks right now; he’s sure of it.

Stiles opens his video software. He wobbles to his feet, rips off his t-shirt and tosses it onto the floor. A wave of dizziness hits him and he stumbles a little, just enough so his chub shakes with it. The feeling is amazing, and it _looks_ amazing on the screen in front of him.

Stiles adjusts the angle of the camera, takes a deep breath and hits record. He gives a little wave, making sure he steps back enough that his body is in the shot but not his head, and places both hands on the sides of his full stomach, jiggling his belly with purpose this time. He has to bite his lip to hold back a noise it feels so good, something tugging heat through is lower belly, his dick. With one hand, he plays over his pudgy love handles and the other drags slowly up his belly, lifting all the way up and then dropping it when he reaches his chest. It’s softer there, so soft, but not quite enough that the skin creases while he’s standing. Not yet. 

He's a little bit less drunk and a little bit less stoned than he was before the diner, some of the alcohol soaked up with carbs regardless of what Derek said, but he's still riding the vague, effervescent high of it. The combination is making his body tingle pleasantly, makes every touch spread the sensation across his skin. _God_ and his skin is so fucking soft. Right on his underbelly he feels the warm blubberiness of the fat that's been creeping up on him for years. It weighs heavily against his fingertips. He lifts it up and lets it bounce back down, sending ripples through his belly fat.

Stiles really lets himself _look_ for the first time all night, and what he sees makes his dick pulse in his too-tight pants. He resists the urge to adjust himself and steps forward so his crotch is more or less out of the shot. God, he’s gotten fat. And after everything he’s eaten today he’s visibly swollen, rounded out like he’s been pumped full of air if not for the heaviness of all the food and drinks in his gut. He runs his hands over the expanse, distracted by the way his fingers sink into doughy flesh even over the hard, fullness in his stomach.

Stiles is full, so full he feels immense, aching pressure in his belly, topped off by that big piece of chocolate pie. But some strange part of him wants to keep eating, just a little bit more. So he reaches to the side of his laptop, belly taking up the whole frame for a couple seconds while he snatches the last chocolate cupcake. He feels gluttonous, decadent as he shoves it in his mouth so greedily more than half of it is gone in just one bite. Stiles barely takes the time to lick some of the frosting from his lips before diving back in. And then it’s gone, the only remnants being the frosting and crumbs dusting Stiles’s chest and caked on his hands. Stiles almost wishes there was another, but he knows he’s more than maxed out. His stomach grumbles angrily and Stiles hiccups as he cleans up his fingers with his tongue.

Once his hands are mostly clean, wiped off on his boxers, he stops the recording and collapses into his desk chair. Stiles doesn’t watch the video before setting it to upload to YouTube, just writes a probably too long-winded description of how fat he’s gotten and how stuffed he is. And then he rolls his chair backwards with his feet until it hits the edge of his bed, and does his best to flop into it without having to get up.

He doesn’t hesitate before wrapping a hand around himself and he doesn’t have the patience to draw it out any longer. With his other hand mapping out the rounded mass of his bloated gut, it’s only seconds before he comes, shaking. “Ah, holy fuck,” Stiles whispers, like a benediction, between desperate gulps for air. He’s sucked near-instantly into a deep sleep, satisfaction seeping deep into his bones.


	3. Encouragement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Why don’t you come over to my place instead? I was gonna watch the game anyway. And I actually have a TV. And satellite.”
> 
> Stiles’s heart thumps in his chest. Fuck. He’s never been to Derek’s house. Derek is inviting him to his _house_. "Who even has satellite TV anymore? What are you, rich?”
> 
> “Shut up. Are you in or not?”
> 
> “Yeah, dude, I’m so in.” He reaches over the table to grab at Derek’s forearm. “That’d be awesome. Thank you.”
> 
> Derek rolls his eyes, pulling his arm back to stand up. “It’s not a problem, Stiles.”
> 
> “No really, man, you’re my hero. Hey. I’ll bring pizza. What do you like?”
> 
> “It’s fine, I’d rather just cook something.”
> 
> Stiles’s heart soars. He hears angels singing. He might tear up a little. “You’re gonna _cook for me?_ ”

Stiles slumps dejectedly in his usual booth at Derek’s restaurant, La Luna Piena. He glares at his phone and types out a message. _Scott. Are you kidding me? You’re the worst._

_Sorry dude. I’ll make it up to you I swear._

_You’d better._

He turns the screen off and tosses the phone onto the table a little harder than he means to, takes an angry bite of perfect, creamy pasta that he barely even _enjoys_. Okay, he enjoys, but he’s still _pissed_.

“Are you _pouting_?” Derek says.

Stiles looks up to see Derek looking fucking edible in his crisp, white uniform. The sight cheers him slightly, but not enough. “No,” he says through a mouthful.

Derek sighs and drops into the booth across from him. “What’s wrong.”

Stiles chews through his pasta and says, “The Dodgers are playing the Mets on Saturday. The friggin’ _Mets_. You know how I feel about the Mets. And my dad’s got work and Scott bailed on me for a _date_. I don’t even have cable or anything; I’m gonna have to watch the game on my shitty, ancient laptop, _all by myself._ It’s the _worst_. If the charger falls out, the thing just _dies_ and I can’t afford a new battery _or_ a new charger right now. I spend way too much money eating here.”

“You really do. I should give you a frequent diners discount.”

“Oh my god, really?”

“No.”

Betrayed, again. Stiles scowls. “Asshole.”

“Why don’t you come over to my place instead? I was gonna watch the game anyway. And I actually have a TV. And satellite.”

Stiles’s heart thumps in his chest. Fuck. He’s never been to Derek’s house. Derek is inviting him to his _house_. "Who even has satellite TV anymore? What are you, rich?”

“Shut up. Are you in or not?”

“Yeah, dude, I’m so in.” He reaches over the table to grab at Derek’s forearm. “That’d be _awesome_. Thank you.”

Derek rolls his eyes, pulling his arm back to stand up. “It’s not a problem, Stiles.”

“No really, man, you’re my hero. Hey. I’ll bring pizza. What do you like?”

“It’s fine, I’d rather just cook something.”

Stiles’s heart soars. He hears angels singing. He might tear up a little. “You’re gonna _cook for me_?”

“Yes?”

“Fuck, dude. I lo--uh. You’re the best. The best of the best.” Stiles winks and points finger guns at him.

“I know.”

Derek walks back towards the kitchen door and Stiles pumps his fist in victory. Two of his life goals are about to be achieved. Seeing Derek’s house, and having Derek cook for him. Well, technically, Derek cooks for him all the time, but that doesn’t count. Still, Stiles does come to this restaurant enough that in his opinion, Derek really _should_ give him a discount, but whatever.

Derek’s restaurant is more than a little responsible for the way his khakis are currently digging into his hips, the way they feel distractingly constricting around his thighs when he’s sitting down, and the way the buttons on his shirts have started pull a little bit too much to be totally decent, so he has to leave the sides open all the time. Stiles is closing in on thirty pounds gained since he graduated, and that’s on _top_ of the twenty gained between then and spring break.

He keeps figuring he’ll plateau, like, he can’t keep getting fatter indefinitely, right? But he must be eating more than he thinks he is. Maybe he should slow down. Because Derek’s restaurant has only been open for four months. With this kind of momentum, Stiles will be up another hundred or so by next year.

...The idea isn’t as unappealing as it probably should be.

In fact, it actually makes Stiles shovel his frankly enormous plate of pasta down his throat with a relentless kind of desperation he _usually_ doesn’t show outside his own house, where there’s only Allison to witness his gluttony. And she’s hardly in a position to judge, considering how pudgy she’s gotten, lately. Stiles is probably a bad influence.

 

***

 

That night, he’s safely tucked in his room, apartment empty, giving himself a belly rub with his feet kicked up on his desk. Next thing he knows he’s opening up his conversation with wolf-it-down on Kik and saying, _fuck, dude, I’m so bloated_.

He holds his phone out, takes a quick shot of his swollen belly and hits send. Teasing wolf-it-down has become one of Stiles’s favorite pastimes over the last few months, and he’s horny, and he wants... Something. They don’t really have the kind of relationship where he encourages Stiles or anything, even though Stiles would not by _any_ means be disinterested in that.

The guy is interested, too, that much is clear, but he’s also _shy_. Which is adorable, but also frustrating. It took months for him to even work up to talking to Stiles over Kik instead of shitty Tumblr messaging. Stiles just has to ease him into it. He’ll get it there one of these days and Stiles is nothing if not determined.

 _Jesus, S. I’m still at work, you know,_ wolf-it-down says.

Stiles grins. Not for the first time, he thinks about how he doesn’t really know anything about wolf-it-down. Not really. Not what he does for a living, what his face looks like, his name, even. At this point, Stiles isn’t sure he’d be able to call him anything but wolf-it-down in his head, even if he manages to get it out of him.

_Hey don’t blame me, buddy, you’re the one who’s on his phone at work in the first place. Tisk tisk._

_I’m the boss, I can do what I want. We’re closing up anyway. What have you been eating to look like that?_

_Had some spaghetti earlier._ (He hears Derek correct him in his head. ‘It was linguine, Stiles.’ Or was it fettuccine? He doesn’t know the difference.) _Then couple beers. Pringles. A pint of ice cream._

_Hmm, doesn’t sound like too much._

Stiles squirms. Maybe this is it. _Nah, I could probably squeeze some more in._

_Why don’t you?_

He considers for a moment whether or not it’s a genuine question or a request. Stiles decides he doesn’t really care because he’s gonna eat more and take wolf-it-down along for the ride either way. _Maybe I will,_ he says _. Any requests?_

_What do you have?_

Okay. Pretty noncommittal, but maybe he’s just being courteous. That’s nice. It’s not like Stiles has an unlimited supply of food on hand. _Not much_ , Stiles says, peering at the kitchen through his cracked door. _Cereal?_ _Some more chips, probably. Roommate gets the bulk packs. Might be another pint of ice cream in the freezer, but again. Roommate’s. I’m not above temporarily misappropriating it though, just so you know._

_I admire your commitment._

Stiles waits on bated breath for a solid three minutes while wolf-it-down types his next message, hoping that’s not the end of the conversation. Maybe Stiles has been misreading his interest all this time. Does he think Stiles is just sending him platonic belly selfies? Is he just being polite? What--

_None of that sounds like quite enough for you. That fat gut of yours needs more than a few snacks to keep it satisfied, or so I’ve been told._

Stiles lets out a loud whoop that probably scares the shit out of his neighbors, but who fucking cares because this is _happening_. There’s another pause during which Stiles’s heart beats a rapid, fucking thrilled staccato against his chest and every ounce of blood pumps straight to his dick. This might be the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

 _Can you order take out?_ Wolf-it-down says.

And he’s back to being courteous. It really does nothing to diminish Stiles’s hard on though. It’s sweet. Stiles _loves_ sweet. But the thing is, he already ate out once tonight and while _technically_ he can afford it, he knows he probably shouldn’t.

_If you can’t, I can tell you how to make a cake out of whatever you have. I know you don’t really bake, but I promise I’ll go easy on you._

It’s probably stupid, how Stiles’s belly fills with butterflies at the thought of something so domestic. With the knowledge that he’d be doing it so Stiles would have a whole cake to himself to eat at the end. Fuck. It sounds almost better than just ordering takeout, but...

Stiles casts a woeful look at the clock on his phone. It’s almost midnight and he has a early shift tomorrow that he’s probably already going to suffer through. He can’t really afford to put off sleep for much longer.

_I gotta get up early tomorrow. Let’s go with takeout._

_Sure._

_But raincheck on the cake thing if you think you can keep me on track long enough to not burn my house down_.

 _Yeah, I’d like that. I’m a good teacher, don’t worry_.

Stiles grins, swirling in a little too much emotion from what’s sort of supposed to be the internet gaining encouragement equivalent of a booty call. He shakes himself out of it and says, _You haven’t seen me in action or you’d be the one who was worried._

_...I’m not taking any responsibility for property damage._

Stiles laughs. _Duly noted._

He minimizes the conversation and texts Allison. _Hey, are you gonna be home soon?_

_Yeah I’m just leaving. Y?_

_Could you pick me up some McDonald’s? Please? Pretty please?_

_Get it yourself? Lol._

_Come on, you’re already out. I’ll tip you for your services._

_Fine, but only bc I want fries._

_You’re an angel. I adore you._

She sends back a halo emoji with a series of burgers and fries and flying money.

_2 Big Macs, large fries, and a chocolate shake por favor??_

_Yeah yeah_.

Stiles opens up his chat with wolf-it-down _. Roommate’s picking me up some burgers._

_That’s nice considering you don’t seem to have any problems stealing from them._

_Borrowing, dude. I would never steal. My dad’s the sheriff, and obviously he raised me to be an upstanding citizen._

_What?_

Stiles is confused. Which part of that was unclear? _What what?_

_Your dad’s the sheriff?_

_Um, yes? Is that a problem?_

_No, of course not. Sorry._

_Oookay._

He’s gone for long enough that Stiles has to swallow back panic. Why would wolf-it-down care about his dad being the Sheriff? Is he some sort of criminal? Stiles has to remind himself that he’s probably just closing up, now, and that weird detour didn’t mean anything. When he comes back, he says, _Why don’t you get a snack while you wait for your food? You must be getting hungry._

Back to familiar territory at least _. Starving,_ Stiles types _. Wasting away. How will I ever find enough sustenance?_

He takes a quick shot of his belly, up close with his other hand grabbing a nice, big handful. Stiles eases himself up and out of his desk chair and pads out of his room. When he opens the fridge, he’s greeted by the familiar sight of half-empty, half-junk that seems to be the perpetual state of Stiles and Allison’s kitchen. He picks up a four pack of chocolate pudding cups, grabs a clean spoon from the drying rack, sticks it in his mouth, and carries the pudding back to his room. He’s got a message waiting for him when he gets there.

_To satisfy that gut? I don’t know. Is that even possible?_

Stiles smirks, letting the heady feeling of anticipation wash over him again. _Barely. But I’m always up for a challenge._

_I have no doubt. I’ve got to lock up and drive home, but my apartment’s not far. Why don’t you finish up a snack before I get there._

He sends a pic of the pudding cups and says, _Already on it, chief._

_Good boy._

Stiles tears open a pudding cup and shovels some in his mouth, basking in the glow of wolf-it-down’s praise. Each cup is so small it feels like only a few bites until every one is settled pleasantly in Stiles’s belly. He stacks the empty cups on top of each other and takes a pic to send. Stiles is feeling hazy, now, full and satisfied and at the same time, _ravenous_. He knows those burgers are really going to hit the spot.

Just as he’s sucking back a hit off his bong, he hears the key turn in the lock on the front door. He jumps up as fast as he can in the state he’s in and when he burps from the change in position, smoke trails out of his mouth. Stiles’s belly wobbles, heavy and soft in front of him as he walks out of his room. The smell of the food makes him salivate. “Thank god. I’m starving.”

Allison gives him a look up and down, one eyebrow raised. Stiles looks down at himself and the way his belly hangs over the waistband of his boxers, a nice plump handful of visible skin below the hem of his ridiculously tight t-shirt, which, oh, is stained with a drop of chocolate pudding. He can’t really blame her for the doubt written all over her face. He swipes a finger over his shirt to lick up the stray drop of pudding, and holds out his hands for his delicious bag of food.

“ _Starving_ ,” he says, again.

“I can tell.”

Allison hands over a big paper bag and the milkshake, and with her newly free hand pats the crest of Stiles’s belly affectionately. “Bring out your bong, you’re gonna pay me back in weed,” she says, plopping down on their threadbare dumpster-couch. “You wanna watch Farscape?”

“Oh, um, actually… I have a thing. To do.”

“A thing?”

“Yeah. I’m, um. You know that guy I met online? He’s gonna message me in a few minutes, so…”

“Ohh, you’re sexting your mystery man. Gotcha.”

“He’s not a _mystery man_. And we’re not… sexting. Technically.”

“Okay, whatever. Have fun.” Allison winks at him and digs through her equally stuffed McDonald’s bag.

“Thanks?”

Stiles retreats back to his room and shuts the door behind him. The walls in their apartment are thin, so Stiles, for once, appreciates the obnoxious volume Allison sets the TV at. And it’s only because he still has to pay her back for the food that he doesn’t tell her off for watching the next episode of Farscape _without him, that traitor_. That, and Stiles’s phone vibrates against his desk with a new message.

_You ate all that already? Hope you’re not getting full yet._

_Not a chance ;)_ , Stiles says. He sends wolf-it-down a pic of his Big Macs, large fry, and large chocolate shake, reminding himself to smoke Allison out tomorrow in thanks. He opens his timer cam app and snaps a shot of himself standing from the side, belly stretching out the fabric of his shirt already. _God_ he looks big. He notices, for the first time, a couple of new pink little stretch marks on his love handles.

_Are you sure? All that food in your fat belly and you still want more? So greedy._

_What can I say, I’ve got a big appetite._

_Clearly. Why don’t you show me how big it is and get started on your second dinner._

_Aye aye ;)_

Stiles opens up the box of the first Big Mac, hands shaking a little with anticipation. He fists it in one hand and takes big, greedy bites, letting the sauce drip on his shirt. He’s gonna have to wash it anyway. He’s got his phone in his other hand, takes a picture of the messy burger with bites taken out of it.

Wolf-it-down says,  _You’re going to eat all of that for me, right?_

Stiles wipes some of the grease off his fingers and types one handed, _Of course I am. I wouldn’t be able to help myself, anyway._

_Oh yeah? Why’s that?_

_Restraint is not what most would call my forte. If there’s food I’m probably gonna eat it._ He punctuates that with a big, greedy bite, even though wolf-it-down isn’t there to see.

_That’s kind of gluttonous._

Stiles laughs, shoves a handful of fries in his mouth. _Oh no :O You think so?_

_Mhmm. You know you’re gonna get fat eating like that._

Stiles points the camera at himself and snaps a shot of his torso, shirt ridden up over his belly and lightly food stained, mostly-eaten burger clutched in his other hand. _Fat??? Me??? Nah._

_You know, that doughy gut of yours has probably doubled in size since I started following you._

That’s where most of the weight has gone. A little in his love handles and thighs, his ass and his chest, but most of it landed in his belly, rounding out his frame so there’s no hiding how big he’d gotten anymore, even if he sucks in. But Stiles teases, _I don’t think I’ve gained THAT much weight…_ He shoves the last bit of his Big Mac in his mouth even though it’s too big, and he reaches for some fries to chase it down with.

_Deny it all you want, S. You’ve really been letting yourself go these past few months. You should see how much bigger you look than you did in March._

Stiles’s heart skips a beat and he wants to reach a hand down to tease himself through his boxers, but he doesn’t have any free hands. His other is already clutching his second burger. _You’ve compared pics?_

_Yeah. Sorry if that’s weird._

_It’s not weird._ Fuck, not at all. It was hot thinking about wolf-it-down going back in Stiles’s archive to look for the perfect comparison, liking what he saw. Liking how much plumper Stiles had gotten. _Can you show me?_

A couple minutes go by, and Stiles already regrets asking. Without wolf-it-down’s words to keep him occupied, he has nothing to do but eat, and he’s keyed up, impatient. He almost messages him again, when _finally_ he sends Stiles two pictures taken from near identical angles. And yeah, shit, right there in front of him, there’s no arguing with how much bigger he’d let himself get. He’s soft and empty-bellied in both pics, but in the first, he's visibly smaller. Stiles knows he’s grown, but _seeing_ it like this is so hot he’s squirming, desperate to touch himself.

 _Fuck. Maybe I have gotten fat,_ Stiles says _._

He inhales the last of his burger, burps as he’s licking his fingers clean, and wastes no time reaching down to palm the sensitive, soft underbelly that hasn’t stayed tucked in his t-shirt all night.

 _Do you know how much?_ wolf-it down says. _I’d bet at least 40 lbs. That gut of yours is getting massive._

 _Hold on,_ Stiles sends. He grabs a mouthful of fries before inching his ass to the end of his chair, doing a weird roll to the side move that Stiles knows from experience is easier on a stuffed belly. It’s not until he’s standing that he really realizes how full he is. The ache of it is dulled by the weed and the beer, but the echo of it is still there. Stiles’s stomach is heavy, jutting out in front of him, and it feels, as it always does, _really_ fucking good. He rubs it as he walks to the bathroom, breath coming out in exhausted pants.

He’s never been more thankful for the ensuite bathroom between his and Allison’s rooms. He’s not prepared to go out and face her in the living room, even if he could get his dick to cooperate long enough not to completely embarrass himself.

He pauses for a second to wash his hands so he doesn’t get sauce and grease all over his boxers when he adjusts himself. Stiles has to fight not to wrap a hand around his dick, but the thought of weighing himself is enticing enough that he puts it off. For now.

He stands on the scale, impatiently, camera open and ready to take a pic of the number. 263.2, it flashes up at him. Stiles grins and takes a pic of the scale with his belly jutting casually into the shot, sends it to wolf-it-down. _More like 50 ;)_ , Stiles says.

_Jesus._

Stiles palms his belly one-handed, feeling out the place where most of that weight went. _I mean, at this rate I’ll probably be even fatter by the new year._

_It’s just about holiday season. You’ll be pigging out on all those delicious seasonal treats and wrapped up in layers and you’ll be up 15 more before you even know it._

Stiles picks out an angle for a photo that shows off the way his shirt rides up and the waistband of his boxers digs harshly into his muffin top. _Shit,_ he says, _I better size up now before I burst out of all my clothes. They’re already so freaking tight..._

_That’s what you get for stuffing your face like this every day, fat boy. Show me what you’ve eaten._

Stiles feels tingly from head to toe and his dick throbs, but he ignores it in favor of running, or, well, shuffling gingerly back to his room. He flops into his desk chair and takes a pic showing off the empty burger boxes, half empty fries, and the chocolate shake.

Stiles picks it up and takes a big, reckless slurp. His belly fills with thick milkshake so quickly he can feel it settle and pump his belly more with every mouthful. When Stiles pulls up for air, he lets out a burp and checks his phone.

_Can’t believe you’re almost done with your second dinner. No wonder you’re blowing up. Do you really think you can squeeze in all that milkshake on top of everything?_

Stiles puts down the shake and eases his gut with a cold hand. _I keep telling you not to underestimate me, dude. I can handle it._

Even as he types it, Stiles feels his belly gurgle ominously. He’s actually not 100% sure he _can_ handle it. This would be an easy dinner for him on a regular day, but he’s _already eaten_ a huge dinner, a not insubstantial dessert, and snacks, so the idea of packing so much more away is dizzying. Wolf-it-down says, _of course you can, fat boy. From the looks of things, you’ve had plenty of practice stuffing that gut over the past few months. Fifty pounds, Jesus. You must be insatiable._

_Just about. I don’t know though, I’m getting pretty full, man._

Understatement of the century. Stiles is panting for breath past the mass of food in his gut. That phantom ache grows stronger the more time passes. He thinks for just a second about calling it, but instead Stiles puts down his phone and reaches for his bong, takes a couple of hits to settle his stomach.

He feels foggy afterwards, unfocused, but his body melts into his chair: completely relaxed and pliable. And whether or not it’s particularly _wise_ , Stiles knows after that he can eat some more. On his phone is a message from wolf-it-down. _I bet you are. You’ve been stuffing your face all day, haven’t you?_

Stiles hadn’t thought so, but then he’s making a list in his head of all the things he’d eaten earlier, and he’s suddenly _intimately_ aware of how, exactly, he’s gotten so fat.

He’d chugged a ton of coffee on the way into work, a part time job at Best Buy. The coffee was absolutely loaded with sugar and whole fat milk, but hadn’t had time to eat more than a big bowl of cereal for breakfast, so he’d stolen a few donuts from the break room. Too many to count, now that he thinks about it. He’d packed a lunch--a couple of sandwiches and some snacks, but when one of the managers had shelled out to treat everyone to pizza, he’d had a few slices of that, too. And then, of course, when he got off of work, he stopped in to get dinner from Derek’s place. A few days a week, Stiles also works at an ice cream parlor down the block, and, well. Free ice cream probably doesn’t help either.

_I wouldn’t say STUFFING, but…_

_But I bet you ate enough that all those extra calories are gonna go right to that belly you’ve been growing._

_That is entirely possible._ Stiles sits up with a groan and lets out a burp that clears a little bit of space in his stomach, opens the lid of his shake and reaches for the fries to dip in by the handful and says, _but there’s a chance it’ll go to my thighs or my ass. Keep an open mind_.

What feels like only a couple of bites later, Stiles’s greasy fingers hit cardboard, grainy with salt but french fry-free. Wolf-it-down types, _Or those rolls that wrap around your back and your sides._

_Wow you’ve really been paying attention haven’t you?_

_Enough. How much more?_

_Just the shake left. God I’m stuffed._ Stiles gulps back a few mouthfuls of it, feeling it land cold and heavy in his stomach. He puts the lid and straw back on the shake so he can slurp it down easier. More and more vanishes into Stiles’s belly as he waits for a reply.

Wolf-it-down is typing for what feels like ages, before he says, _Drink it all for me, ok? I want to make sure you’re so much fatter by next year you need to size up again. The weight is gonna pile right on and you’ll probably wonder what happened, but I’ll know. It’s because you spend all your time gorging yourself. You can’t help it. But I want some of that blubbery fat of yours to be there because of me. Because I pushed you just that much more past your limits. I know you’re full, S, but I want you to keep going until you can hardly move, can you do that for me?_

“Holy fuck,” Stiles says. He’s so hard it almost _hurts_ and he needs to touch himself. But he doesn’t have enough _hands_. He tries to balance the cup on top of his belly and it stays if he squeezes it between his… uh… pecs _._ Stiles whines and inches his hand between his legs, careful not to upset the cup as he drinks it down.

_Fuck. Yeah I think I can oblige you. If you encouraged me like this more often I’d end up 500 lbs in no time…_

The first touch is like _heaven_ : so good he has to catch a strangled, desperate moan in his throat and it’s only worse when wolf-it-down sends him, _We should do this again sometime, then. I’d love to see you that fat. Bursting out of all your clothes. Too fat to squeeze your ass through most doorways._

“Shit, fuck,” Stiles says between shaky, gasping breaths, his lungs trying everything to suck in enough air past the mass of food in his belly, only for Stiles to wrap his lips around the straw and gulp down milkshake as if he wasn’t so staggeringly full he probably wouldn’t be able to stand up again. He moves his hand at a blistering, ruthless speed and has to fight to keep his hips from bucking up into his fist because he’s afraid of shaking up his belly too much.

Wolf-it-down seems to sense how far beyond being able to type Stiles is, and continues even as Stiles’s thumb hovers uselessly over the keyboard. _Such a glutton, S. You’ll end up that heavy sooner than you know, if you keep your belly nice and full like this. It’ll grow bigger and bigger every day until your whole lap is filled with doughy fat. But you won’t care, will you? You’ll just keep eating and eating and growing fatter and fatter._

Stiles’s straw finally gives him only spurts of chocolate milkshake, noisy as Stiles reaches for the last few drops. He feels immense, pinned under his own weight and achingly, impossibly full. Stiles’s mind is caught on images of his own belly huge in front of him, his sides so wide he’s trapped between the armrests on his chair. So much fatter, and all because someone _wants_ him to be. Stiles closes his eyes and chokes back a sound as he comes all over his fist, his belly.

He takes a moment to breathe through the haze and blinks his eyes open to find another message from wolf-it-down. _Show me when you’re done. I bet that gut is bigger than ever._

_Oh my god, dude. Shit, ok, hold on. I’m kinda messy right now…_

_I bet. Take your time. Wouldn’t want you to strain anything._

Stiles scoffs, but when he goes to reach for his tissues, he finds himself basically immobilized by his own gluttony, belly seizing with a sharp ache and too swollen to sit up. He burps, helplessly and types, _so it turns out I can’t really move. Give me a sec._

_Somehow I’m not surprised._

He spins his chair and reaches as far as he can so his fingertips catch on the edge of the tissue box on his desk. When he’s cleaned up a little, he tugs his shirt down as far as it will go, which it turns out is just barely below his belly button. He makes sure to take pics that show off exactly how full he is, from every angle, with the shirt and without, and even manages to stagger into a standing position long enough to snap a couple of shots for comparison.

Once he’s satisfied, feeling too lazy to choose, he sends wolf-it-down every single one of them. _What a fatass_ , wolf-it-down says.

_Who, me? ;)_

_Yes, you. Nice work on all that food, fat boy. You really know how to eat. Jesus, you look so bloated._

_It’s been a long time since I’ve been this stuffed. Couldn’t have done it without you, dude._

_Somehow I doubt that, but I’m happy to help._

_Oh I bet you’re VERY happy…_

_Maybe a little. Don’t let it go to your head._

Stiles feels smug and completely sated. He takes a hit and settles into his chair to give himself the belly rub of a lifetime.

 

***

 

The next day, wolf-it-down says, _I forgot to tell you. I invited a guy over for dinner this weekend_.

For some reason, Stiles’s lungs feel tight. _The one you like?_

_Yeah. I'm making so much food even he won't be able to eat it all._

Stiles has heard tales of the guy’s eating prowess. He can’t help but feel a little jealous. Competitive, like he needs to show wolf-it-down who’s better boyfriend material. Which is ridiculous; not only does he live on the other side of the country, he knows wolf-it down is too hung up on this other dude to even consider Stiles.

Not to mention… Stiles is hung up on someone else, too. But he’s not thinking about that right now.

 _How about me?_ Stiles asks.

_Maybe not you. If I’m to believe you can put away as much as you say you can._

_Of course I can! I would never lie about such a serious issue._

_I’ll believe it when I see it._

_Hey. I think you did just last night, bro._

_Doesn’t count. I didn’t even get to see your first dinner._

_Well maybe I’ll have to show you the whole thing sometime ;)_

_All right. I’m expecting great things._

_Seriously tho. Congrats buddy, go get him._

_Thanks. It's not like that though. I'm not going to get anything._

_Don't be so sure, you can be very charming when you’re not being a dick._

_Wow, thanks?_

_Any time ;)_

 

_***_

 

Stiles is nervous. Even after getting separate pep-talks from Scott, Lydia, _and_ Allison.

He and Derek, well. They talk. They have their thing. They like each others’ pics on Instagram occasionally. Sometimes they hang out in a group setting, if Erica invites Stiles along. Hell, they all went out to a dive bar last week. But it’s this sort of camaraderie where Stiles feels weird calling Derek his friend even though he _is_. He’s not _not_ Stiles’s friend. But. This is the first time they’re hanging out just the two of them.

So yeah, Stiles is borderline freaking out. Not really helped by the fact that he’s taking a _private elevator_ up to Derek’s apartment on his instruction. How weird is that? Who has a private elevator?

He pulls at his plaid button-down, sort of wishing he’d worn a t-shirt or something less constricting. But all his t-shirts are too short all of a sudden. They would’ve maybe stood a chance of connecting with the waistline of his pants, except Stiles has been developing a pretty decent overhang lately. It had sort of snuck up on him while he worked part-time at Best Buy and the ice cream parlor down the block because the only things he really wears 90 percent of the week are alternately, his work polo and black jeans, or his other work polo and khakis. At home, the most he ever wears are sweats.

The elevator doors open too soon and Stiles hesitates, wiping his hands on his jeans before stepping forward. He walks into Derek’s loft and spins around to see everything, slightly in awe. It’s _huge_ : high ceilings with windows all the way up, tastefully decorated in a sparse, rustic-industrial, bachelor-pad-ish way. It’s all exposed brick and wood and steel beams and leather furniture, individual light bulbs on wires dripping down like fairy lights.

He knows the Hales have money, knows there’s no way Derek would have been able to open his own fucking restaurant at the ripe old age of 26 otherwise, but _still_. Jesus. It’s a far cry from the tiny apartment Stiles shares with Allison. Or even fucking _Jackson’s_ apartment. Stiles’s eyes catch on a TV that’s practically the size of a movie screen, tuned into ESPN. “Holy fuck, dude. You really _are_ rich.”

He shrugs off his hoodie, hangs it on a hook by the door, and starts walking around. The space is open-concept, kitchen only separated from the eating space and living room by a tall bartop with chairs along the front. Derek walks out of the kitchen when he hears Stiles’s voice and sets down a bowl of bread on a small dining table. “Shut up, Stiles. I’m not rich.”

“Uh huh. You keep thinking that, buddy.”

The familiarity of it makes Stiles calm down just long enough for him to really look at the table, neatly set with nice plates (not the plastic ones Stiles uses), _fabric_ fucking napkins, a bottle of red wine, and a small jar of flowers dead center. He notices that the lights are a little bit low, as if they’re on a dimmer, and Derek...

Derek’s dressed in a navy blue button-down, rolled up to the elbows, dark jeans over his ridiculously muscled legs. Not _fancy_ exactly, but he looks just on the edge of nice enough that Stiles regrets everything he’s currently wearing.

Stiles feels suddenly, jarringly, like he’s on a date instead of having a sports night with his very possibly heterosexual dude-friend. He sort of wishes he’d insisted on bringing pizza because this? Is freaking him out worse than _anything_ so far.

It must show on his face because Derek is sort of frozen, suddenly, eyes wide. So Stiles does what he does best: deflects and makes it a joke. “Nice place, dude. It’s got _ambiance_. Are you trying to woo me? Because it’s working.”

Derek grins. “And you haven’t even tried the food yet.”

“You forget that in a _way_ , I eat your food all the time. I’m used to it, now. So you’re gonna have to step it up if you want me to put out on the first date.”

Derek snorts, blushes satisfyingly, and says, “Uh huh. So you come to my restaurant once a week because the food is mundane and boring, huh?”

“Gotta keep you company, somehow. You’d get lonely without me. I’m probably your favorite customer.”

“If only because you spend half your weekly paycheck on me.”

“That was _one time_.”

“Well _this time_ , you can eat as much as you want and not have to worry about the price tag.”

Derek flushes a little, briefly flicking his eyes down over the belly Stiles knew was probably taking up more and more space every time they saw each other, and high tails it to the kitchen. He’s probably slightly concerned that Stiles is about to eat him out of house and home, but Stiles came prepared.

He fidgets, resisting the urge to tug at his shirt some more, and walks over to rest his arms on the bar as Derek works. “You’re spoiling me, dude. So what’s for dinner?”

Instead of answering, which is so fucking typical, Derek puts on a couple of oven mitts and opens the oven. A wave of steam rushes out, and Derek pulls out an intimidatingly large casserole dish filled with a heavenly-smelling, bubbling, cheesy _something_. “Holy fuck,” Stiles whispers. “What is _that_?”

Derek laughs and sets the dish down on the stove. “I’m testing out a new lasagna recipe. You’re gonna be my first taste tester.”

“Jesus, _god_. That smells so fucking good.”

“Do you need some alone time with my lasagna? It looks like you’re gonna stick your face straight in it.”

“I’m considering it.”

“At least give it some time to cool off, first.”

“No promises, Derek. I can’t resist her. Third degree burns be damned.”

“Go sit down, eat some bread if you’re hungry.”

“I’m not--uh… I mean, sure.”

Stiles isn’t exactly what you might call _hungry_ , but only because he’d eaten some Chinese takeout about an hour ago. He had to _prepare_ , okay? Stiles’s resistance to Derek’s food is, if possible, even lower than it is to most foods. And Stiles knew he wouldn’t be able to limit himself. So, to save himself from that potential embarrassment, he thought, if he pre-gamed a little, he wouldn’t go through too many portions of Derek’s food. It was a perfect plan. If he could learn to keep his mouth shut.

Stiles settles into the dining area, cringing at the sound of the chair creaking ominously under him. He isn’t quite chair-breaking fat yet, is he? He resists the urge to suck in, as if that would even help, and pours himself a big glass of wine. The bread, he realizes, is of the garlic-variety and he inhales two big slices before Derek even comes over to join him.

“Sorry,” Stiles mumbles through a mouthful of bread.

Derek snorts. “I told you to dig in. Help yourself.”

“Well if you insist,” Stiles says, snatching another piece of garlic bread.

Derek sets down a plate for each of them, heaped with artfully-arranged slices of mozzarella and tomato, drizzled with pesto and topped with fresh basil.

“Oh my god,” Stiles says, trying to chew past a bite of garlic bread. “Benefits of knowing a chef.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“It’s too late for that, you’re gonna have to feed me like this all the time, now.”

Derek licks his lips and Stiles should probably stop looking at them. Any time now. “Am I?” Derek says.

“Oh yeah.” Stiles awkwardly spears one of the tomato-mozzarella stacks and tries to shove as much in his mouth as he can. “Holy shit,” he says through a mouthful. “Why is this like the best thing I’ve ever eaten?”

Derek looks smug and picks up his own fork. “Locally grown tomatoes. I grow the herbs myself, and made the pesto. Also I made the mozzarella. It’s fresh.”

Stiles blinks and really takes in how much _work_ must have went into this meal. “Wow, really? You did all that for me?”

“No,” Derek says, staring at his plate. He cuts up his caprese salad into smaller, bite sizes. “It’s just some stuff I had, shut up. It’s not a big deal.”

“Uh huh,” Stiles says, and he means it to come out sarcastically but instead it just sounds sort of breathless. “Sure.”

They eat in silence for a few seconds, but that’s all Stiles can take before he blurts out, “I don’t exactly get a lot of real food these days, so this is. I mean. Thanks, dude.”

“It was no problem, Stiles.”

“Yeah? Well in that case, we should do this again.” Stiles winks.

“We’ll see,” Derek says.

“Hey, that’s not a no!”

“Eat your damn food.”

Stiles snickers and obediently inhales another piece of caprese salad. The fabric of his shirt is pulled taut around his middle and he’s kind of glad for the table in between them, for all he thought they were gonna eat on the couch like _normal people_ before he saw this set up. It hides the worst of it: the spot right around Stiles’s belly button where the space between the buttons is pulled wide enough to show skin. Stiles can feel it.

He sucks in and wriggles the fabric further down, letting his belly out again. Nope, that makes it worse. The part where the shirt is tightest is right over the part where his stomach is _widest_ and Stiles hears the fabric creak under the pressure.

Derek’s eyes are on his food but Stiles catches a little almost smile curving at his lips. “What?” Stiles says, defensively.

“You ready for the main course?”

In an instant, Stiles forgets about his problem and looks longingly at the lasagna. “Oh my god, yeah.” Derek heaps a big slice onto Stiles’s plate. It’s roughly a quarter of the entire pan, maybe more. Derek’s own slice is about half that. “You trying to tell me something, man?”

“You have a bigger appetite than mine; we’ve been over this.”

“It’s rude to assume, Derek.”

Derek raises his eyebrows and grabs back each plate. “What, you wanna trade?”

Stiles grabs his wrist. “I didn’t say that.”

“That’s what I thought.”

Stiles is drawn by the delicious scent of it; he takes a bite almost before Derek even puts the plate down and moans out loud. It’s a few more bites stuffed relentlessly into his mouth until he can even speak through the food. “You’re amazing, this is like, _fuck me_.”

Derek doesn’t respond, but Stiles is too busy eating to converse, anyway. His eyes are shut tight to preserve the integrity of the one sense that matters right now. _Taste_.

The first slice slides down quicker than he’d anticipated, and Derek’s serving more onto Stiles’s plate as he’s chewing through the last mouthful. It oozes out to cover basically Stiles’s entire plate. He glances up and notices that Derek’s own piece is barely half finished.

“Aren’t you eating?” Stiles says, new, cheesy forkful suspended on the way to his mouth.

Derek’s eyes widen slightly, but his expression shifts before Stiles can catch it. “Not everyone can shovel food back as fast as you.”

“Their loss,” Stiles says, and crams his mouth full of _easily_ the most incredible lasagna he’s ever eaten. And that’s including the one Melissa makes on holidays, although he’d never tell her that.

He doesn’t notice his own fullness until he’s finished the whole thing, but when he does, he’s winded by it. He can feel the fabric around his stomach struggle to stretch all the way around him. The buttons groan when he shifts, but he doesn’t have it in him to refuse the next piece Derek heaps on his plate without asking.

Stiles smothers a burp in his throat and tries to catch his breath before diving in again. If Derek is put off by Stiles’s uncharacteristic silence, he doesn’t say so. Stiles watches him pick at his own smallish second slice while Stiles slurps down noodles and sauce and cheese with gusto he probably shouldn’t still have, after as much food as he’s already eaten.

Derek smirks at him as he scrapes up a forkful of sauce off his empty plate and licks it up. “Should I get the second one?”

Stiles swallows and his mouth falls open. “Second? You made two of these monsters?”

“Of course. I knew you were coming, after all.”

“Ha, ha.” Stiles gingerly feels across the expanse of his full belly, testing to see if he should keep eating. “No, I--” he burps, unable to muffle the sound it this time. “I think I’ve had enough.”

“Hmm.” The smirk hasn’t faded from Derek’s face, though he looks like he’s trying to bite it back. He pauses for a moment and says, “You ate already didn't you? Before you came here. Should I be offended?”

“Wh--I. How did you _know_ that?!”

“I know you, Stiles. I was actually thinking two pans might not be enough, but if you’re full already… it’s not that much of a leap.”

“That’s. What. I’m…”

Derek leans both elbows on the table and pushes forward. It’s not enough to get in Stiles’s face with the table between them, but it makes Stiles want to take a step back all the same. “Isn’t that sort of excessive, though?” Derek says, “I mean, even for you. Two dinners in one night?”

Stiles just barely manages not to blurt out-- _wouldn’t be the first time_. “No, I. I only ate a little before I came here, I swear! People were getting take out at work and... I didn't know you were cooking a _feast_ , or trust me I would've held out.”

“Really?”

Stiles tilted his head, honestly considering. “...Maybe.”

Derek laughed. “It’s okay, Stiles.” He gets up from the table and takes a pan off the bar, brings it over to the table and peels the tin foil back. “I know you can’t resist food.”

 _Oh my god_ , Stiles thinks. It looks amazing. And Derek is right, Sitles _can’t_ resist food. Especially not when it’s right in his face _looking_ so amazing, especially not when Stiles _knows_ it’s amazing. His face feels so hot he wonders how blotchy it looks, how much it gives away his embarrassment. “It’s. I… _could_.”

“But you don’t. It’s okay. Just as long as you saved room for all this lasagna. I don’t want any leftovers.”

“Dude, I told you, I’m tapping out.”

“You sure? I bet you could handle one more piece.”

Derek has the slice perched on a spatula, dripping cheese, still hot and smelling like basil and garlic. “...Fine, okay. One more,” Stiles sighs.

He grunts as he leans forward in his chair. His stomach grumbles angrily. He takes a bite. Stiles’s eyes flutter shut like it’s his first taste, like he’ll never get tired of it. He’s pretty sure it’s not possible to get tired of such a masterpiece. Even when he’s stuffed to the brim, probably a whole pan of it inside his gut alongside the bread and the caprese salad.

The Chinese food had already made him feel bloated, but towards the end of his fourth slice (slice being a misleading term for a _mountain_ ) of lasagna, Stiles is pretty sure he hadn’t known the meaning of the word until that moment.

Derek refills Stiles’s wine glass, gets up from the table to go back into the kitchen, and Stiles narrows his eyes at Derek’s retreating back.

“Honestly, dude. Don’t tell me you’re getting more food. I don’t think even _I_ can handle much more.”

Derek turns to flash him a grin. “Maybe not _much_ more, but you _can_ handle more, right? I made dessert, too.”

“...I’m almost afraid to ask, but what is it?”

“Cheesecake.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Stiles says. “Okay, fine.”

Derek laughs

Stiles leans just slightly forward to catch the last of the lasagna on his tongue and just as he’s got his lips wrapped around his fork, he hears a loud  _pop_ , the sound of something skittering across the floor. He feels a release right around his tight, full stomach. He shuts his eyes, hoping that wasn’t what he thinks it was. Stiles can’t bring himself to look, but he can feel a breeze on the skin of his belly, and he _knows_.

Derek turns at the sound and says, “Did you hear something?”

“N--uh. No. Nope,” Stiles mumbles through a mouthful of food. He shifts, trying to give his belly more cover and his heart is jackrabbiting in his chest. He’s probably blushing unattractive, splotchy red if the heat in his face is anything to go by. Worst of all, he’s _turned on_.

But it’s _hot_ , he can’t pretend it isn’t. The fact that he overate himself out of clothes that honestly should have been retired weeks ago. Stiles swallows back his last bite of lasagna, already mourning the loss, but his stomach is _aching_. He can feel it pushing at the taxed seams of his shirt, stretching the other buttons. He can’t very well keep eating after this, can he?

Stiles hastily folds his arms over himself when Derek comes back over to take the some dishes. Derek says, “You can go sit on the couch, we can have dessert while we watch the game.”

Stiles isn’t sure how he’s supposed to get there without Derek seeing his shirt… situation. He needs something to cover himself. He needs his hoodie, which is hanging on a hook by the door; he just needs an opportunity to get to it without being seen. So he stalls for time. “Um. You sure? I can see from here just fine, you know, I don’t want to make a mess of your couch and--”

“Stiles. Don’t worry about it.”

“I. Um. I would rather stay here. I’m good, here, really.”

Derek raises his eyebrows. Stiles fidgets and wills Derek to stop looking at him. “Suit yourself, I guess,” Derek says, turning to take the dishes to the sink.

Once Derek is puttering around the kitchen and Stiles thinks he has a free shot, he bolts out of his chair. His belly lurches unpleasantly, but Stiles doesn’t care, he just has to make it to his hoodie before Derek turns around.

Stiles is breathing hard once he makes it there and he swings the arms of his hoodie around his shoulders, jamming his hands in, and that’s when he hears a deafening crash.

Stiles looks up, startled, and sees Derek wide-eyed and staring back at him, eyes fixed-- “Fuck,” Stiles says, hastily pulling the sides of his hoodie closed over his gut. He points at Derek and says, “Shut up.”

“I didn't say anything.”

Stiles turns his back on Derek to suck in and zip himself up, and it’s just his luck that his hoodie is _also_ obscenely formfitting. “You were thinking it! I know you.”

“You have no idea what I'm thinking, Stiles, believe me.”

Stiles scoffs. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.”

“Yeah, well, shut up, anyway. I don’t wanna hear it.”

His face is burning and not because it’s _way_ too warm with this many layers on. Stiles walks over to the couch, avoiding Derek’s eyes, and slouches into it. He hears Derek sweeping up whatever it was he dropped and tries to suck in as much as possible. It hurts, and it doesn’t help much anyway, so he gives up. His only saving grace is that he’s not hard. At least not yet.

When Derek sits next to him, there’s a smirk on his face fighting to take over and it _infuriates_ Stiles. “Okay, fine, I give up. Just spit it out, dude. I know you want to.”

“I wasn’t--”

“I might have had a minor wardrobe malfunction, okay? There. It’s all out in the open.”

Derek flashes Stiles a grin and makes a pointed look at Stiles’s belly. “Not anymore.”

Stiles gapes at Derek, who is shaking trying to hold in his laughter. “This is all your _fault_ , you dick,” Stiles says.

“How’s that?”

“You’ve been fattening me up for _months_ , buddy. Don’t deny.”

Derek licks his lips and sways just slightly into Stiles’s space. “Sounds like a pretty flimsy excuse for the way you’ve been eating.”

“But it’s true. You just made me a _feast_ , how can you even--”

“It’s not like I _force_ you to come eat at my restaurant twice a week.”

Stiles throws his arms out wildly. “You might as well!”

“How am I doing that?”

“By making everything so fucking delicious, oh my god!”

Stiles shouts practically into Derek’s face and he’s wondering when they’d gotten so close, when Derek’s expression cracks like he’s about to burst out laughing. “I’m sorry,” Derek says. “I’ll stop. Gotta preserve your modesty somehow.”

Stiles doesn’t notice the hand coming towards him until it lands on his belly. Specifically, zeroed in on the exact part of his belly where his fat is bursting out between buttons. It doesn’t matter that he’s covered with a hoodie now, Stiles feels _exposed_.

No, he feels… a jolt, like electricity at the contact, even through his clothing. Everything sort of shifts, like he’s on a roller-coaster dropping into a free fall.

And then it’s over before it started, just a quick pat and Derek’s hand is gone. “Think it’s too late for that,” Stiles says, breathless.

Derek hands him a plate of the biggest slice of cheesecake he’s ever laid eyes on and says, “Yeah, probably. Might as well continue with my nefarious plan to fatten you up, then.”

Stiles takes the plate with a glare. Through a mouthful of cheesecake, Stiles says, “Dick,” and then, “Oh my god. Derek, holy shit.”

Derek is grinning at him, wide and slightly intimidating. “Good?”

Stiles would answer, he really would, except his mouth is already full of delicious, creamy, perfect cheesecake and the only sounds he can make are vaguely sexual yummy noises. Derek settles in beside him with a much more modest slice of cake and that ever-present smug expression on his face.

The game has been on for _minutes_ and Stiles hasn’t even been paying attention because he’s too distracted by stupid Derek and his awful, amazing food and how ridiculously turned on Stiles is by this whole embarrassing situation. He’s so angry about this that he inhales his food, even the crumbs on his plate scraped up into Stiles’s greedy mouth. His stomach groans, a little queasy under the onslaught.

And then he feels it more than he hears it: the release of the button right under the first, pop muffled under the fabric of his hoodie.

Stiles licks his lips and hazards a glance over to Derek. Derek is looking at him with an unreadable expression. He’s shocked, maybe. Stiles’s heartbeat is thrumming in his veins.

Derek says, “Was that…”

“No,” Stiles says quickly, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Derek laughs, wild and breathy. Stiles has never heard him laugh like that, and he’s so beautiful Stiles has a hard time even feeling bad that it’s at his expense. But he slouches in his seat, anyway, and huffs, dramatically.

“Don’t be embarrassed, Stiles.”

“Don’t be embarrassed? By the fact that I popped two buttons on my shirt eating what was, even for me, a _shocking_ amount of food in front of my--you. Yeah, that’s not likely.”

“I mean it. You don’t need to be. I told you you can eat however much you want to.”

Stiles narrows his eyes, peering at Derek’s impassive profile like it’ll somehow give him the answers. “...Okay,” he says.

The more Stiles looks at him, the shiftier he looks. Derek says, “There’s more cheesecake if you want it.”

“You are unbelievable, dude. You cannot be serious.”

“Why not?”

“Because--because look at this.” Stiles unzips his hoodie down to his belly button before he can think it through. “Does it _look_ like I can eat any more?”

Derek’s eyes catch on the skin showing between buttons and then flick up and down between Stiles’s gut and his face more times than Stiles can keep track of as he says, “No, but I _know_ you can. I’ve seen how much you can eat, you know.”

“ _Yeah_ , but--”

“You don’t have to hold back just because of a little... wardrobe malfunction.”

Stiles looks at Derek’s face, trying to figure out the catch. He zips his hoodie slowly. “No?”

“No. You can have as much as you want, Stiles.”

“As much as I want, huh?” Stiles licks his lips and sneaks a look at the rest of the cheesecake on the table. He smirks with bravado he doesn’t feel and says, “I don’t think you know what you’re getting yourself into.”

Derek smirks back. “Try me.”

Stiles takes in a deep breath and tries to lean forward to reach for another slice, but his stomach cramps up. A belch makes its way out of Stiles’s open, panting mouth. At least it mercifully frees up a tiny bit of space in his stomach, but it’s not enough to help Stiles push himself up all the way. He collapses back against the cushions and presses his hands into his belly. It groans with a telltale sound that gives Stiles enough warning to smother the next burp behind his fist. “Give me,” Stiles pants, “A second.”

“One Mississippi,” Derek says, before dropping his plate onto the crest of Stiles’s belly. It’s got a perfect, untouched slice of cheesecake on it, and Stiles isn’t sure when Derek grabbed it. Stiles glares at him, mostly because he’s supposed to.

Derek grins. “I gave you a second.”

“Asshole,” Stiles says, but he doesn’t waste another second before taking a bite.

It’s way too thick to be inhaling like this, too rich, but Stiles can’t seem to make himself stop. And he can’t stop thinking about why Derek would be giving him so much food. _Feeding him_ , his brain unhelpfully provides.

Stiles’s insides are a mess of knots, some caused by overindulgence and others by overthinking. His eyes are on the TV screen but they’re unfocused, not registering anything that’s happening. The announcers are droning in his ear through the surround sound, but he can’t hear them.

Stiles is thinking about things he probably shouldn’t be. The kind of stuff that he’d almost-successfully managed to ignore for the better part of the last few months.

He thinks about the way that this isn’t even the first time Derek has pushed food at him in one way or another. It’s pretty damn far from it, actually. Stiles had just passed it off as Derek having a shitty appetite and no desire for leftovers. But _what if?_ His brain hisses at him. _What if_ the way Derek keeps glancing at him means something. What if the way the night has turned into a feast of home-cooked deliciousness _means_ something.

What Stiles and Derek are on exactly the same page?

And as his brain works overtime, Stiles stuffs his mouth full of cheesecake. It melts on his tongue, slides down his throat, and the occasional pang of pain in his stomach is worth it for the way it tastes, for the feeling of Derek’s eyes on him maybe more than could be considered normal.

The cheesecake is almost too easy to finish, and then he’s gathering a stray bit of filling onto his thumb and sucking it off. Stiles hands the plate over to Derek, imploring him with wide eyes. Derek doesn’t take it at first, just looks at Stiles and raises one eyebrow.

“I could use a refill,” Stiles says, waving the plate a little in Derek’s face.

Derek takes it, but says, “What? Can’t get it yourself?”

“Think I’m a little too full to move.” He pats his belly and leans all the way back, and Derek’s eyes trail over him as he does. A thrill runs through Stiles, a shiver all the way down to his toes.

“Can’t imagine why.”

“Mhm, me either. But I’m sure it doesn’t have _anything_ to do with that nefarious plan of yours, right?”

Derek scoffs, but, although it’s hard to tell in the dim light, Derek looks delicately flushed along his cheekbones. He fills Stiles’s plate and sets it on his belly again.

“If anything,” Derek says, “You seem determined to fatten _yourself_ up.”

Derek isn’t looking at him; his eyes are fixed on the screen. The flush--and there’s _definitely_ a flush--has spread to the tips of Derek’s ears.

Stiles can’t help it. He laughs. Derek has _no_ _idea_ how close he hit to home. The weight Stiles has gained… well it wasn’t necessarily deliberate, but it wasn’t necessarily an accident, either. He can’t deny that a part of him savors every pound, catalogues every detail. Every roll, every inch, every outgrown piece of clothing.

“Maybe I am,” Stiles says. “It’s not so bad, you know. You should try it, sometime.”

“Not gonna happen.”

“Your loss, big guy.”

Stiles takes a bite of his third slice of cheesecake, and he can feel himself start to go from uncomfortably full to beyond stuffed with every bite. His belly aches, but he doesn’t stop, because- well, he’s not sure, but it has something to do with proving himself to Derek in a way Stiles is sure doesn’t make sense to anyone but himself.

Derek probably wouldn’t care, Stiles tells himself, if he doesn’t finish. If it’s too much. But he’s already halfway there, and Stiles Stilinski doesn’t half-ass anything. Usually.

Another burp escapes when Stiles opens his mouth to take another bite. _God_ , he’s full. His head swims. His stomach groans. He can’t breathe. But he takes another bite, and another, and another, until there’s nothing left.

Stiles drops his plate onto the sofa next to him. “Okay, that’s--” Stiles hiccups, pitifully, “Enough. I’m done. Possibly... forever.”

“Save more room, next time. All of this could’ve been yours.” Derek gestures to the cheesecake, a little more than half-eaten.

“Jesus. Hey, wait, does that mean there’s gonna be a next time? You’re gonna cook for me all the time, now, right? You can’t very well just let me go back to eating Ramen every other night, not after this. That’s just cruel and unusual.”

“We’ll see.”

“Nuh uh, no take backs. I heard you loud and clear, man. _Next time_ , I’ll come hungry, don’t you worry.”

“Looking forward to it.”

Derek said it sarcastically, accompanying eye roll one of the most aggressive Stiles has ever seen, but something about it… If Stiles didn’t know any better he’d say that Derek was _full of shit_. But Stiles lets it slide, because the alternative is that it has something to do with that _thing_ Stiles is actively _not_ thinking about right now. Or maybe ever. Because it’s a crazy thing to think about.

And, furthermore, Stiles is busy watching the game. The very important game, which he’d been so upset about potentially missing. If the Mets won these three games against the Dodgers, they’d make it to the playoffs, Stiles reminds himself. He glances at the score and allows himself to feel smug about the Mets being a run ahead.

Baseball. _Baseball_ is why Stiles is here. Not Derek, or Derek’s food, or Derek’s face.

They settle into watching the game in companionable silence interspersed with shit-talking each others’ teams. Over time, Stiles’s gut settles enough that during a commercial break, he feels decent enough to get up to take a leak.

He has to heave himself up off the couch, which redoubles his slight stomachache, and he virtually waddles to the bathroom, but he makes it, and that’s all that matters.

Stiles closes the bathroom door softly, belying how eager he is to see the damage. After he relieves himself and washes his hands, Stiles eyes his belly, tightly encased in his hoodie. It makes his gut look massive and puffy. He pokes at it for a moment before ripping the zipper open and drinking in his appearance. Stiles’s jaw drops.

His breath catches in his throat and, mesmerized, he brings his fingers to the doughy flesh spilling out of his shirt. The opening is gaping wide and stretching from his sternum to his navel, framing his full stomach perfectly. The rest of his torso is crammed like a sausage into it, making the plaid distort over his curves. God, how had he not realized how tight it was before he left the house?

Stiles brings his hands to his bare skin, and is not remotely surprised that there’s barely any give _at all_. Just the tiniest bit of flab layered over top, and the rest is a churning mass of food. He presses in and he lets out an overstuffed burp.

Stiles is getting hard just looking at himself and he feels more than a little narcissistic for it, but it’s _hot_. He feels fat and gluttonous and Stiles wants someone to tease. He snaps a couple of mirror shots with his phone.

He figures it would be in poor taste to sext the guy he’s sort of kind of messing around with while he’s with the guy he has a crush on, so he doesn’t… exactly. But, after a few seconds deliberation, he does say, _hope your date is as stuffed as I am right now, holy shit._

_Not a date._

_That’s not a no!_

_No, that’s not a no._

_Deets dude, come on._

_Later._

_Tease._

_Takes one to know one._

Stiles snorts. He contemplates sending a couple pics, but something stops him. A part of him wants the night to just be for him and Derek, even though he’s not sure Derek will remember Stiles bursting out of his clothes _quite_ as fondly as Stiles will.

He sucks in as much as he can and zips up the hoodie. When Stiles gets back to the couch, Derek is looking at his phone with a grin plastered on his face.

“Talking to your _girlfriend_?” Stiles teases. It’s a joke, more than anything, something that older people often ask him at work.

Derek rolls his eyes, but to Stiles’s horror says, “Just a guy.” The expression melts off his face and he shoves his phone back in his pocket.

It hits Stiles, then, that Derek already has someone.

Stiles’s voice sounds choked when he says, “A guy?”

“Yeah, a guy. We’ve been talking, it’s not a big deal.”

“You like him?”

Derek doesn’t answer, but his ears turn a spectacular shade of red. So spectacular it’s 100 percent visible, _even_ in the low lights. Stiles almost gags.  

“Well. Congrats, buddy,” Stiles says, not meaning it in the slightest.

Derek looks at him strangely, eyes squinting like he’s assessing something. Stiles fights with himself not to look away, but he’s sure his feelings are doing something to his face that he can’t control.

“Nothing to congratulate,” Derek says. “It’s not like that.”

“Hey, not yet,” Stiles says, going for hopeful and encouraging but instead it comes out flat. Derek peers at him and doesn’t respond. Stiles knows if he’s not careful, Derek will figure him out.

“What about you?” Derek asks.

“What _about_ me?”

“Do you have… a guy--a girl?”

“None of the above.” But Stiles thinks of wolf-it-down and their long distance semi-sexual mostly impersonal non-relationship and he corrects, “Well, kind of. There is a guy, but it’s, you know.” Stiles waves his hand dismissively. “Casual?”

“Oh.”

Stiles clears his throat. “I don’t know about you, but I could use some fresh air.” He heads over to the door to the balcony, and steps out without asking.

He just needs to clear his head. He’ll be fine.

“Stiles,” Derek says from behind him.

Stiles takes a big gulp of chilled air and blinks his eyes open. He says, “Holy shit, dude.”

Derek hands him his wine glass, but Stiles takes it without looking, captivated by the way Downtown Beacon Hills looks at night; the sparkling lights of the not-quite cityscape. When he looks over, Derek is smiling smugly at him, face pink from the cold. “Nice view, huh?”

“No kidding. Oh my god. This is like, prime romancing real estate right here.” Stiles takes a frustrated gulp of wine. “I bet you bring all your dates out on this balcony and they just fall right into your stupid muscly arms.” He sounds slightly bitter, maybe, but Derek probably doesn’t notice. Stiles is an idiot for bringing it up, because he very much does _not_ want to talk about it, but he must be feeling masochistic.

“Haven’t had the chance to try that out, yet.”

Stiles raises an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Yeah, really. I don’t know why you think I’m some sort of Lothario, but I don’t really date much. Not in a while.”

“What about your…” Stiles gestures with his glass in a way that’s meant to symbolize _that guy, the one I hate for making you blush like that_. It’s an expansive gesture and Stiles spills some wine over the side of the building making it.

“I told you, it’s nothing.”

“But you want it to be.”

“No. I don’t know. It depends, I guess.”

“On what?” Derek falls silent. “Okay, fine, you don’t want to talk about it. I get that.”

And he does. It’s not as if he’d be willing to open up about his own crush, although that’s obviously for different reasons. But there’s a part of Stiles that’s more offended that Derek doesn’t think of him as enough of a friend to discuss his thing for this _other guy_ than he is about the other guy in the first place.

“Well,” Stiles says. He sets his glass of wine on the balcony wall and turns his head to look at the way the moonlight reflects off of Derek’s profile, how his eyes shine and how he looks melancholic and so unbearably fucking beautiful Stiles can’t take it. “When you bring a date up here for real I'm sure they'll totally fall in love with…” Derek catches Stiles’s eyes and Stiles gasps, soft. “You.”

The realization hits Stiles so hard he almost reels back. That’s that aching feeling in his chest that he’s been trying _so_ hard to ignore. The one that’s gripping his heart in a vice and trying to squeeze the life out of it.

It’s so typical of Stiles to fall for a guy who’s already into someone else.

“You think so?” Derek says.

“Yeah, I think it’s pretty safe to say.” Stiles clears his throat trying to make his voice sound less shaky. “You should bring that ‘ _just a guy’_ of yours up here. Ten bucks says he’ll be successfully wooed.”

It’s a long moment before Derek responds. Stiles glances at him and finds his face has gone stormy. He wonders if Derek thinks this other guy could do anything but fall in love with him. “Yeah. Maybe,” he says.

Stiles’s mood has soured, and by the looks of things so has Derek’s. Maybe it makes Stiles kind of an asshole, but he’s not remotely in the mood to comfort Derek over someone else. He’d just tell him how amazing and gorgeous and funny and irresistible he is, and where would that leave Stiles? Exposed and just as broken hearted, Derek feeling guilty for not feeling the same. So instead, he does what he does best: he talks.

He talks about baseball, at first, but at some point he veers wildly into the recent advancements in space exploration with no clear idea of how he got there. Stiles’s stomach aches with the need to sit down, but all that matters is that Derek’s face is folded into that bemused yet entertained expression he makes when Stiles talks and suddenly they’re in a heated argument about whether or not half a shot of 5 Hour Energy would give you two and a half hours of energy or five hours of half-assed energy.

Stiles almost forgets his heartache entirely because he’s having _way_ too much fun and it’s hard to feel wanting for anything with Derek’s arm casually brushing against his as they lean against the half-wall, all Derek’s attention focused on Stiles.

After they’ve fallen into a comfortable silence, Stiles says, “Thanks for this, man.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Derek winces, flicking his eyes back towards the window. “I think we missed the game.”

Stiles laughs. He’d completely forgotten about it. “What, really? How long have we been out here? Never mind. Thanks taken back. You’re _way_ too distracting, I’m never watching baseball with you again.”

“Distracting, huh?”

“Hah.” Stiles looks away, rubs at his face to hide the sudden burst of heat creeping across his cheeks. “Don’t let it go to your head.” There’s something in Derek’s eyes that’s doing _terrible_ things to Stiles’s heart and he suddenly needs to get out of there before he does something he regrets. “So I’m gonna head out, I think. Since the game’s over and everything.”

“Yeah, of course.”

There’s an awkward moment before Stiles makes his way back inside, heads for the elevator door on the other side of the apartment.

“Hold on,” Derek says. Stiles pauses by the door while Derek heads for the fridge. He brings back two huge tupperwares: one filled to bursting with lasagna and the other with cheesecake.

Stiles stares at them, still feeling queasy from how much he’s already eaten. He hesitates even though he wants them more than he could explain. “Dude, what are you, my grandma?”

Derek rolls his eyes. “Just take it, Stiles. I don’t need it.”

Stiles gestures to himself. “And you think _I_ do? Have you forgotten what happened already?”

“Shut up and take the tupperware.”

Stiles does and Derek shoves him into the elevator. “Uh, thanks.”

Derek nods. “See you, Stiles.”

“Yeah. See you.”

When the elevator door closes, Stiles takes a big, shuddery breath and leans back against the wall. He rubs his belly with one hand, trying to decide if he’s nauseous because of all the food or because of too many warring feelings circling around. _God_ , how could he be so _stupid_? Thinking that he and Derek might have been on the same page. That any of that meant anything.

Stiles is shaking by the time he makes it back to his Jeep and closes the door. He breathes deep and fumbles for his phone, calling number 2 on his speed dial.

“Hey, dude, what’s up?” Scott says.

“I think I'm in love with him.”

Stiles says it so quickly and so without preamble he’s not sure Scott caught it, but he doesn’t know if he can say it again. He hears Scott get up, someone else’s voice in the background. “Wait, who?”

“Oh, shit. You're on a date right now, I'll--”

“Stiles, it's okay. Slow down. Who’re you talking about?”

“Derek,” Stiles murmurs.

“...Uh huh?”

“ _Uh huh_ , that's all you've got to say?”

“I'm sorry, I just... Did you just realize that? I kind of thought that was already a thing. My bad.”

“No! What? You. I mean. I didn’t. I _liked_ him, obviously, but. Scott, I think I might _love_ him. Like. Big time, bro.”

“Okay.” He doesn’t know how Scott sounds so calm about this, when Stiles’s heart is ready to explode. “Are you still at his house?”

“I'm freaking out in the parking lot of his apartment complex, if that counts.”

Scott laughs. “Kind of. Are you gonna tell him?”

“No! Oh my god, I'm not telling him.”

“Why not?”

“Because! Because he’s into someone else, Scott. And why would he be into _me_? God, this is so stupid.”

“Why wouldn’t he like you, Stiles? You’re great.”

Stiles almost smiles at the earnestness in Scott’s voice. He calms a little. “You have to say that. You’re my best friend.”

“Well I mean it, anyway.”

Stiles sighs and drapes himself over his steering wheel. “I know you do, buddy. I’m just gonna go home, though. Sorry for interrupting your date”

“Dude, don’t worry about it. I’ll come over tomorrow and we can talk about it, okay?”

“Yeah. Thanks. Later, dude.”

“Later.”

Stiles watches the screen of his phone as Scott hangs up.

“Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.”

 


	4. Piece of Cake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And now Stiles is stranded on his couch, too full to do much of anything else. _Definitely_ too full to sit up, and from the angle he's at, his gut partially blocks the view of the TV, too. It's pouring rain, water splattering against his windowpane as if the weather is reflecting his sour mood. 
> 
> Just as he's cleaning the grease off his fingers with his sweatpants so he can at least pick up his phone, the doorbell buzzes. Stiles eyes it suspiciously. 
> 
> He checks his phone to see if anyone he knows texted him to say they're coming over, but there's nothing. He lets it buzz one more time, before curiosity gets the better of him. Stiles tries to heave himself off the couch, but it takes some effort. After a couple of rolls back and forth, pushing against the mass of food in his belly, Stiles gets to his feet with a burp that manages to relieve at least some of the pressure. The doorbell buzzes one more time as Stiles is struggling to shove a t-shirt over his head.
> 
> Carefully stepping over the creaky floorboard, Stiles leans his face against the door so he can peer through the little eye hole.
> 
> Bizarrely, on the other side, is Derek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is the finale! GET READY.

Stiles is alone and swimming in a sea of empty Chinese takeout boxes and half a six pack of crushed beer cans, sprawled on his musty couch in nothing but a pair of tight, worn sweatpants. He feels slightly pathetic, but is too stuffed to do anything about it.

He has a cushy nine to five office job now, and don’t get him wrong, he’s glad to be free of retail, and glad for the (slightly) higher pay and benefits, but Allison has been working weird shifts at the Sheriff’s station recently, so their daily ritual of glutting themselves on shitty food while watching Netflix is now down to twice a week, tops.

But having more time to himself has honestly only exacerbated Stiles’s tendency to gorge himself. He has no one to answer to, no one to make fun of him (however _hypocritically_ ), and no one to steal the last eggroll. Stiles gets _all_ of the eggrolls now. They sit uncomfortably in his bloated gut and he belches weakly, reaching for a fortune cookie.

He cracks it in half and reads his fortune. _You will soon gain something you have always wanted._

He shoves all the cookie shards in his mouth at once.

The one-two combo of the sorry state of his social life with eating so much has him constantly feeling some unfortunate combination of lonely and horny, caught up between his feelings for Derek and his feelings for wolf-it-down, and there’s virtually no end in sight. It’s a recipe for disaster that’s made his weight gain continue ticking steadily upwards when he feels like it should probably have plateaued at some point.

He doesn’t exactly mind that part, but with no one to appreciate it, _really_ appreciate it, it feels like it’s being wasted on boys who don’t care.

Wolf-it-down only cares enough to get off and periodically have meandering, slightly impersonal conversations. He’s shy or whatever, Stiles gets it, but it’s been over a year and a half since they started talking, and they still haven’t exchanged _names_. He has no idea what the guy’s face even looks like.

Stiles _thinks_ they would be good together, that they get along, they’re attracted to each other so _why not_? Why not take it to the next level? Sure, there’s a leap of faith in dating someone long-distance like that, but so what? Stiles doesn’t care about that. Of course, the real answer is that wolf-it-down has that other guy he’s pining for. Stiles would advise him to just get over it and move on, the guy clearly isn’t interested, except…

Then there’s also Derek, and Stiles could say the exact same thing to himself. If Derek were interested, he would’ve made a move already. Why wouldn’t he? He’s seeing someone else, still, Stiles is pretty sure, so that should be that, right? Stiles should just move on.

From the _both_ of them.

But the fact of the matter is, he can’t think about anyone else but Derek: won’t even consider it. And he’s tried. The dating thing. But Stiles can’t half-ass anything; he can’t completely focus his attention on someone else, when it’s always, _always_ , at least a little, on Derek. Even with wolf-it-down, or during that brief fling he had with Parrish, or when he hooked up with Braeden a couple times, at least half his heart was with Derek. He couldn’t do it.

In short, everything is terrible, and Stiles spends many a night wallowing in a pit of heartbreak misery and empty snack-sized Cheeto bags.

During the day, he keeps himself busy with either work, stealth-writing pockets of his secret sci-fi novel when he’s supposed to be working, or stealth-researching for his secret sci-fi novel when he’s supposed to be working. It’s gone pretty well for him, so far.

But at night, when his Adderall wears off and his mind is aggressively multitasking, split between internet research spirals, and Candy Crush, and binge watching shows on Netflix, it’s harder to avoid the wallowing.

And now Stiles is stranded on his couch, too full to do much of anything else. _Definitely_ too full to sit up, and from the angle he’s at, his gut partially blocks the view of the TV, too. It’s pouring rain, water splattering against his windowpane as if the weather is reflecting his sour mood.

Just as he’s cleaning the grease off his fingers with his sweatpants so he can at least pick up his phone, the doorbell buzzes. Stiles eyes it suspiciously.

He checks his phone to see if anyone he knows texted him to say they’re coming over, but there’s nothing. He lets it buzz one more time, before curiosity gets the better of him. Stiles tries to heave himself off the couch, but it takes some effort. After a couple of rolls back and forth, pushing against the mass of food in his belly, Stiles gets to his feet with a burp that manages to relieve at least some of the pressure. The doorbell buzzes one more time as Stiles is struggling to shove a t-shirt over his head.

Carefully stepping over the creaky floorboard, Stiles leans his face against the door so he can peer through the little eye hole.

Bizarrely, on the other side, is Derek.

Stiles snaps his head back, blinks rapidly to clear his vision, and then leans back in only to be met with the same image: Derek, looking a little worse for the wear in a slightly damp jacket, hair bending under the weight of the water droplets all over it. Stiles watches his frown deepen and he turns as if to stalk back down the hall towards the elevators.

Stiles rushes to unlatch the chain and the deadbolt lock and swings the door open so hard it hits the wall. “Derek! What the fuck, man.”

“Hey,” Derek says. “Sorry, I lost my phone and I wanted to get out of the rain but nothing was open. I just saw your building--”

Stiles waves him in. “Yeah, dude, no problem. Come in, Jesus.” He puts both hands on Derek’s shoulders and looks him over, trying and mostly failing not to get lost in all the little nooks and valleys highlighted by Derek’s clinging shirt. “You’re soaked.”

“Are you busy? You weren’t asleep, were you?”

Since Derek hasn’t made a move to come inside, Stiles drags him in, and then strips him out of his leather jacket. “Nope and only if you count Netflix sans chill as busy, dude. Don’t worry about it.”

He hangs the jacket over a chair, and turns back to Derek, who’s peering around the apartment. Stiles resists the urge to make a cursory attempt at cleaning up, or at least getting some of the random clothes and shit out of the way, and he flushes deeply when Derek eyes the empty food containers spread around the couch and coffee table. He clears his throat. “So,” Stiles begins, and then is interrupted by a hiccup. He tries to will the heat out of his cheeks. “Uh, what happened, man? Rough night?”

Derek sighs and flops down onto the couch without bothering to move any of the cartons, careless and a little exaggerated. “You could say that.”

“Dude. Are you drunk?”

Derek rolls his head towards Stiles “Pfft, no.”

Stiles’s mouth drops open wide, half-smiling. “Oh my god, you totally are.”

“Maybe a little tipsy,” Derek agrees, reluctantly.

Stiles refuses to find him adorable, and he flops onto the couch next to him, in the middle rather than the opposite end. He’s gratified when Derek leans into him, and Stiles says, “What happened to your phone?”

“Lost it.” He runs a hand through his wet hair and it sticks up strangely. Stiles simultaneously wants to take pictures and smooth it down with his fingertips. “It’s at the restaurant I went to, I think. I’ll call tomorrow.”

“Why not now?”

“Closed. We went to this bar afterwards. Really ostentatious, not my kind of place.”

“Who’d you go with?”

Derek scoffs, rolls his eyes, and waves his hand lazily at the same time. “Some asshole.”

It startles a snort out of Stiles before it registers what that means. “A-a date?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Derek spits, venomously.

Stiles tries to ignore the rapid beat of his heart; his brain that keeps screaming at him, _Derek’s single. He’s single_. He says, “That bad, huh?”

“He seemed at least decent, at first, and smart. He’s some kind of chemist. But after we got to the bar it got weird.”

“How come?”

“He kept talking about shit, like, how to dissolve bodies and get away with murder.”

Stiles whistles. “Excellent first date material. Are we talking true crime junkie, or the kind of guy who writes letters to serial killers in prison, or do you think he was looking to recruit you for his nefarious crimes?”

Derek tilts his head to the side and hums, before settling on, “The second one, probably.”

Stiles cackles, giddy. “Oh my god.”

“So I tried to leave but he wanted me to go back to his place, kept offering to share a cab, and I just snapped at him and left. And then realized I had to go back for my phone, but it wasn’t there.”

“Shit, dude. Sounds like you had a busy night.”

Derek picks up an empty food carton and smiles broadly. “You look like you’re having a busy night, too.”

This kind of teasing is familiar now, but it still manages to make something flutter in Stiles’s gut, his heart leap in his chest. “Yep,” he says. “Me and my TV and the Chinese food delivery guy had a crazy night. Shame you had to miss it.”

Derek’s eyes track down Stiles’s face, once, twice. He leans in a little closer and says, “Yeah. Shame.”

Stiles clears his throat and shifts just slightly out of Derek’s space, blood rushing through his veins. “So do you, uh, wanna stick around? Hang out? I was having a Chopped marathon. Or do you want me to call you an Uber?”

Derek sinks further into the couch cushions, wriggling to get comfortable. “No, that’s okay,” he says. Derek’s mouth quirks and he looks mischievous and loose and flushed and Stiles can’t take his eyes off him. “I was gonna see if you wanted to order a pizza or something, but it looks like you ate plenty, already.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, I barely ate anything, man.” Derek shakes with a laugh, and Stiles says, “Oh, wait, are you hungry? We could get something.”

Derek flicks his eyes down to Stiles’s gut. “Seriously? You still got room in there?”

Stiles scoffs. “Do you really need to ask?” he says, but it’s bravado, pure and simple. Stiles can never seem to help himself around Derek. His stomach gurgles unpleasantly, disagreeing vehemently, but he ignores it.

“Guess not. I should really know better.”

“You should. Besides, everyone knows Chinese food only fills you up for like, an hour. I’m definitely going to need more sustenance, STAT.”

Derek shifts so he’s turned towards Stiles on the couch, one leg folded underneath the other. “Oh yeah? We’d better get you something, then. You could waste away.”

“I practically already am.”

Derek eyes him up and down; Stiles feels the heat of it on his skin like a physical thing. He says, “Definitely. What was your favorite pizza place again?”

“Antonio’s, but I doubt it’s open. Actually, I don’t think anywhere around here will be. Fuckin’ Sunday.”

“Oh.” Derek pouts, brow furrowed and lip pooched out, an expression so surreal on Derek’s face that Stiles laughs, uproariously. He might not be entirely sober, either. Derek says, “Well what do you have in the kitchen? I could whip something up.”

Stiles gasps and swats Derek on the arm. He salivates thinking about Derek’s cooking. “Dude. Really?”

“Yeah, really.”

“ _Fuck,_ I am so into that, you have no idea. I’ll beg you if I have to.”

Derek stands up before Stiles can read the expression that flickers across his face. “As much as I’d like to hear that, it won’t be necessary.”

“I don’t know.” Stiles grunts as he pushes himself up to follow Derek into the kitchen. “You haven’t seen the state of my fridge, I don’t think there’s a lot you can do with it.”

Derek raises his eyebrows and opens the refrigerator. There’s not much other than drinks and condiments and a few snacks. He and Allison really need to go shopping. Stiles pulls out two beers and hands one to Derek.

“That’s not food,” Derek says.

“Does that mean you don’t want one?” Stiles picks his Millennium Falcon magnet bottle opener off the fridge door and cracks his open, taking a couple of long pulls. He’s thirsty from so much salty food, but his stomach protests almost immediately. He burps into his fist.

When he looks up, Derek’s face is a little pinched, but he holds out his hand, palm up. Stiles drops the bottle opener into it, trying to keep his mouth pulled down at the corners despite the smile that threatens to break.

Derek opens his bottle, a little clumsy, and takes a much more conservative sip before pulling a few things out of the fridge: butter, milk, eggs. Stiles leans against the counter to watch him work.

“What are you making?” Stiles asks.

“You’ll see.”

Derek opens the cabinets next, pulling out measuring cups and bowls and flour and baking powder. Stiles didn’t even know he had most of that stuff, but he vaguely remembers Allison’s parents attempting to stock their kitchen when they moved in so they didn’t die of malnutrition. They’d barely touched any of it, but it’s sure coming in handy now.

Stiles watches as Derek sets a saucepan on the stove and pours a few things in it, watches him take the bowl he and Allison usually use for chips when they have company and pour a few things in that, too. It’s something sweet, probably, judging by all the sugar.

Despite himself, Stiles licks his lips, thinking back to all the desserts Derek has made for him: the cheesecake, the brownies, the almond cookies. He squirms and fills the meager amount of space in his belly with the rest of his beer. It goes straight to his head and he tries to keep his hands occupied peeling the label off the bottle instead of feeling the bloated dome of his gut.

His eyes drift over the lines of Derek’s body, the way the damp fabric clings to his skin, and Stiles’s stomach is bubbly from anticipation. The beer too, probably. _Single_ , his mind screams. _He’s single_.

“So…” Stiles tries to phrase it delicately, tries to sound like he’s not absolutely dying to know. “What happened to that dude you were with? Didn’t work out?”

“No, that’s still, we’re still, you know.” Stiles’s eyes widen, but Derek stops his train of thought. “I’m not cheating on him. Like I said, it’s... casual.”

“Huh.” Stiles grits his teeth, chest feeling suddenly tight. “Still? Didn’t really take you for the friends with benefits type.”

Derek starts mixing the contents of the bowl, aggressively fast. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. You just seem like more of the romantic type, that’s all.” Derek shrugs. “It’s been a long time…” He shrugs again. “You don’t want it to be more serious?”

Derek sighs. Stiles can’t see his face, but he knows the sigh of the incredibly dejected when he hears it. His heart splinters a little bit, knowing that Derek is hurting.

Knowing that Derek still wants someone else.

Stiles swallows his disappointment and pushes off the counter to stand next to him, not quite close enough to touch. “Is he like, stringing you along or something?”

“No, it’s. Complicated.”

“Uh oh.”

“It’s fine, Stiles. I’m fine.”

Stiles knocks their shoulders together. “Well... you’re going out on dates, now, that’s good. Even if they’re terrible.” _I wouldn’t be terrible_ , Stiles thinks. _I’d treat you so good, go out with me, go out with me_.

“I think I’ve had enough of that for awhile.”

“Oh. Yeah. I get that.” Derek peers at him carefully, clearly trying not to pry. Stiles rolls his eyes. “Dating hasn’t exactly been going too well for me, either.”

Derek’s focus goes back to measuring things out in tiny cups. Stiles turns away and opens the fridge to grab another beer, downs half of it before Derek says, “Braeden told me you two went out.”

“Yeah, a couple times.” It was especially hard, with her, to keep Derek out of his mind. He kept thinking about what they must have been like when they were together. Playful, Stiles bets. _Sexy_. “Didn’t work out.”

The beer twists around in his gut, too heavy and bubbly, but he takes another sip, anyway. He heaves himself onto the counter across from Derek, feet dangling off the side. He racks his brain for a change in subject before Derek asks any further about his love life. He remembers him talking about some high-profile critic with a pretentious food blog coming to review his restaurant a few days ago. “So how did the visit from that blog asshole go?”

Derek smiles that smile he has when talking about his work. “I won’t really know until she publishes the article, but I think it went well. My waiters told me she was making, I quote ‘yummy noises’ while she was eating the new spinach and ricotta cannelloni.”

“You have a new entrée?” Stiles’s free hand covers his heart in outrage. “I didn’t know that!”

Derek huffs out a breath and turns his head just enough to glare at him, “You would have if you’d stopped by in the last couple of months.”

Stiles winces. He’s admittedly been avoiding the place somewhat, if only because seeing Derek in his little chef’s uniform, totally in his element, making delicious foods for him was a little more than his heart could take, sometimes. But he hadn’t meant to stay away for so long. He misses it. Misses the delicate, creamy, deliciously fattening taste of all that homey comfort-food filling his mouth, his belly. It wasn’t any more tortuous than having Derek soft and rumpled in his _home_ cooking for him, anyway.

“Sorry,” Stiles says. “Shit’s pretty expensive, Derek. I told you I need the frequent diner’s discount if you want me to keep your business afloat single-handedly.”

Derek smirks. “That didn’t used to stop you.”

“I was young and stupid, dude.” Stiles sighs, wistfully and pats his belly. “I miss it though. Pasta is a very important component of my diet.”

“Clearly.”

“Seriously, though. Congrats, dude. I’m sure you killed it. That blog lady is gonna be raving about your restaurant, and if she doesn’t, she has no taste _at all_.”

“Thanks, Stiles.”

Stiles points a finger gun at him, pulls the trigger and winks. Derek narrows his eyes and turns back to the counter. He takes a couple sips of beer and it makes Derek flush a spectacular pink. Stiles watches it curl up his neck and around the sides of his face. He blames his own beer for tearing away any semblance of subtlety in the way his eyes linger, but Derek doesn’t notice, too absorbed in his task. He mixes the contents of the bowl with an electric mixer for several minutes while Stiles pours the last of his beer into his gut, kicking his feet against the cabinets.

“Do you want any help?” Stiles says over the whirr of the mixer.

“What?”

He shouts, “I said do you want any help!”

The sound stops and the kitchen rings with silence. Derek says, “Yeah, you can help me with something.”

He takes a teaspoon and scoops batter onto it, cups a hand underneath so it doesn’t drip on the floor, and carries it to Stiles. Derek stands in between Stiles’s legs, close enough to touch. On a whim, Stiles leans forward and parts his lips, grips his fingers on the edge of the counter so he won’t chicken out and take the spoon out of Derek’s hand.

Derek’s face is unreadable, but he pauses only a fraction of a second before bringing the spoon to Stiles’s lips. Stiles takes the whole thing in his mouth, taking his time to lick every last drop of batter off. With his mouth still around it, he whimpers a little, an involuntary, ridiculous sound. He’s not sure if it’s because of the taste (perfect and buttery and sweet), or the vision of Derek in front of him, wide-eyed and feeding him a spoonful of homemade cake batter.

Stiles startles with sudden realization, lets the spoon slide from his mouth. He leans back, just slightly further out of Derek’s space and he groans out, “ _Fuck_ , that’s good.”

Derek’s face is red, red, red. He’s still holding his hand up in midair, and it hits Stiles in waves that he must have fucked up, been too obvious. He licks his lips free of sweetness and opens his mouth to talk until the awkwardness passes, but Derek beats him to it. He says, “Yeah?”

“Uh, yeah, dude. Amazing. Perfect.” Stiles tries to counter the breathiness of his voice with a double thumbs up. Derek gives him a wavering smile and turns back to the other side of the kitchen. Stiles’s heart is trying to break out of his ribcage.

“You don’t think it needs anything?” Derek takes his own taste, using the same spoon. Stiles doesn’t know why that makes his stomach flutter.

“Nope. Perfect.”

Derek pours the contents of the bowl into two identical cake pans and puts the contents of the saucepan in the fridge. Stiles slides off the countertop and wobbles on his feet, nearly losing his balance if not for the gentle, strong hand on his elbow keeping him standing up straight.

“Thanks,” Stiles murmurs. He clears his throat, tries again. “My hero.”

Derek snorts and steers Stiles into the living room. “C’mon, let’s get you sitting down until the cake is ready to soak up all that beer you’ve been drinking.”

“Says the man who’s probably had just as much, if not _more_ than me.” He lets Derek manhandle him through the doorway and resolves not to think about Derek manhandling him in other situations, at least until he leaves. _Starting now_.

“Yeah, but I’m _clearly_ not as much of a lightweight as you, Stiles.”

“Pfft. Fine. Just means I’m a cheaper date, it’s nothing to be ashamed of.” He lets out an, “Oof,” when Derek pushes him onto the couch.

“Cheap date?" Derek scoffs. "If we're counting food, I seriously doubt that.”

"Touché," Stiles says, holding his breath as Derek takes a seat next to him, so close their thighs are touching.

He entertains a brief fantasy of wrapping an arm around Derek’s shoulder, but instead he reaches across the coffee table for the remote control. He belches suddenly when his fingers curl around it. “Okay.” He sits back and holds another burp behind closed lips. “Maybe I have had enough beer.” His stomach is making loud gurgling, sloshing noises, complaining. He wonders if Derek can hear it, too.

“You okay?” Derek asks.

“Fine, fine.” A gurgle falls out of his mouth even as he says it. “Just need some cake to settle my stomach.” He winks at Derek and presses play on the episode he had paused.

Derek is an excellent companion to watch Chopped with, Stiles decides. Not only does he not mind when Stiles provides integral commentary (“Why the _fuck_ isn’t he using the canned chicken? It’s one of the mystery basket ingredients, oh my god, you had _one job_.” “Don’t make ice cream, are you insane!? There's no time!”), but Derek has some of his own. (“I can’t believe this jackass just put caviar in a blender.” “What the fuck are you even supposed to make out of Scrapple, that’s disgusting.”)

They manage to keep up a healthy stream of snide remarks, but Stiles is slightly off his game. He keeps getting distracted. He can’t stop thinking about how close Derek is, how he can feel the body heat radiating from his leg and all the places where they’re almost-touching, about him sliding between Stiles’s fat thighs and feeding him heaping spoonfuls of cake batter until he’s so full he can’t breathe.

“Stop squirming,” Derek says.

Stiles doesn’t bring up the fact that he’s the one who’s pressed up against Stiles when he has plenty of room on the other side of the couch, because he’s afraid if he does than he’ll actually _move_. Instead, he huffs and uses every ounce of willpower at his disposal to keep still and just watch the show.

 

Derek’s phone buzzes loudly, vibrating in the space between their legs. Derek hops up like a tightly coiled spring and on his way to the kitchen says, “Cake’s done.”

Stiles _whoop_ ’s, weird tension very nearly forgotten in the face of cake. He grunts and rolls to his feet, and that’s when he notices the worst of the ache in his gut has subsided. As promised, the fullness from his Chinese food binge passed quickly. He isn’t hungry, exactly, but he’s not full either, and he is _ready_ for that cake.

When he makes it to the kitchen, the scent of it wafts pleasantly through the open door of the oven, and Stiles inhales, swaying on his feet a little from desire. Both cake pans are resting on his stovetop and Stiles wants to dive in face-first.

Derek turns around and smirks at him. “It still needs to cool.”

Stiles watches him pop both cakes out of their pans and onto two plates. He whines, “Are you _sure_?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.” He puts a hand on Stiles’s chest, right over his beating heart, and pushes him backwards. “Unless you want the icing to melt all over the place and burn your pretty mouth.”

Stiles stops abruptly and his jaw drops. “You… think my mouth’s pretty?”

Derek snatches his hand back and looks anywhere but Stiles’s eyes. He growls, “No. Shut up. It’s just a phrase.”

“A _super gay_ phrase,” Stiles says, with a touch too much irritation to come across as jokey.

He rolls his eyes, grabs Stiles’s shoulder and spins him around, towards the doorway. “Yeah, yeah.”

Stiles turns back around to walk backwards and say, “It’s not polite to get a guy’s hopes up like that, Derek.”

“I’m sure you’re devastated.”

“I _am_ , dude, and don’t change the subject.”

“You’re the one who--”

“I, for one, don’t care if the icing is melted and it burns my _pretty_ mouth off.” Stiles feels an intense sense of satisfaction from the heated flush on Derek’s face and how annoyed he looks by Stiles repeating his words back to him.

“Yeah, well, I do.”

Stiles points at him and announces, “You are no fun at all.” He promptly trips over his own feet and falls backwards onto the couch.

For a moment, Derek towers over him. “Are you really that eager, Stiles? You only just ate, what? An hour ago, tops?”

“Wh--maybe. Dude, don’t judge me. I thought we were beyond that. And anyway, I did _tell_ you I needed more sustenance.” Stiles gestures to himself. “I didn’t get this hot bod by accident.”

Derek leans his hip casually (and very, very sexily) against the arm of the couch, folds his arms and says, “And how did you get it, exactly? By stuffing your face full of takeout and beer and cake every night?”

Stiles’s face feels hot and his stomach swoops. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he says. “I don’t have you here to bake me a cake _every_ night.”

Derek smiles, a full, toothy, intimidating smile. “Shame.”

“I _know_. If you want to volunteer for the position, I’m more than happy to have you.”

Derek slides down onto the couch next to Stiles, angles his body towards him so his knee is resting against Stiles’s thigh. Derek says, “And how would you pay me back for my services?”

“The pleasure of my company?” Derek’s face contorts as if he’s considering it, and then gives him a thumbs up that flips and sinks into a thumbs down. “Wow, hurtful. Blowies?”

Derek chokes on air. “Stiles--”

“Okay, no blowies then, jeez.”

“Did you just offer me _sex_ in exchange for cake?”

“I mean, I guess that depends on how good the cake is. Although, judging from past performance, I really have no reason to doubt you.”

Derek’s wearing the exact same expression he wore after Stiles ate a spoonful of cake batter from his hands without warning. He says, “Um. Thanks.”

“Aaany time, buddy.” Stiles hits play on the episode they’d paused, before he can say anything else.

 

The next time Derek gets up, he says, “Stay here. I don’t trust you not to start sampling it before it’s even done.”

Stiles scrambles to follow him. “It’s like you simultaneously know me so well, and _not at all_ , if you think i’m gonna stay put when there’s _cake_.”

Derek sighs but doesn’t argue, and only glares a little when Stiles hovers by his side. He starts off slicing the rounded top off of one of the layers, so Stiles darts in and steals a piece of it. He stuffs it in his mouth and even without the frosting, it’s incredibly moist and sweet. Stiles moans.

Derek says, “Jesus, here.” He holds out the rest and Stiles has to cup it in two hands so it doesn’t fall all over the floor. “Stay out of my way.”

Stiles eats it out of his own hands like a wild animal, and he steps back for a moment to watch Derek frost the cake until it’s coated with a smooth layer of thick, chocolatey heaven. Stiles licks the crumbs from his hands and then sneaks up behind Derek and swipes a finger through the perfect frosting. Derek catches his wrist before he can reach his mouth, and then wraps his own soft lips around Stiles’s finger. He says, “Mmm,” as Stiles’s brain resets. He barely gets to savor the feeling of Derek’s hot, wet tongue against his skin before Derek pulls off with a pop.

“Buh,” Stiles says, tingling all over. He watches Derek smirk, self-satisfied, and carry the cake and two forks to the living room. Belatedly, Stiles shouts, “Gross, dude!”

Derek laughs, and Stiles takes a moment to compose himself. He leans both hands on the counter and takes deep breaths, willing himself not to get hard. To buy time, he pours a tall glass of whole milk, takes a few sips, refills the glass, and then finally resigns himself to showing his face. He hopes it’s not too blotchy pink, but he’s not holding his breath.

Because he enjoys suffering, Stiles sits so close to Derek on the couch, their arms and hips and thighs are all pressed tightly together.

Derek has the cake held out in front of him. He didn’t bring out plates or a knife to slice it, so Stiles takes his fork out of Derek’s hand and carves out a huge, greedy forkful. Some of the icing drips on Stiles’s already slightly grease-stained shirt, but most of it manages to fill Stiles’s cheeks until they’re bulging.  His eyes fall shut and he moans, desperately.

Derek’s voice rumbles next to Stiles’s ear. “I take it it’s good, then?”

“It’s perfect,” Stiles mumbles around a mouthful of the _greatest cake he’s ever eaten_ in his _life_ . Once he swallows he immediately wants to fill his mouth again, but he pauses for just long enough to say, “Oh my god, Derek. What the fuck kind of _witchcraft_.”

“It’s called ‘culinary skills,’ but thanks.”

Through another enormous bite, Stiles says, “ _Witchcraft_.”

Derek snorts and turns the show back on, so Stiles is free to gorge himself. He keeps his mouth full instead of providing hilarious commentary, but Derek picks up his slack, a little. He devours it so quickly, he doesn’t feel the near-painful fullness in his stomach until a substantial chunk is carved out of the cake, but he doesn’t think about stopping for even a second.

It’s immaculate. Every taste is like a miracle. He could eat a tub of just the buttery sweet frosting all by itself.

He only pauses momentarily to lick the chocolate off his t-shirt and his face. A loud burp falls out of his open mouth, and it jerks him back to the present enough to note that since he’d lifted up his shirt enough to suck off the frosting, his belly is hanging out, proudly distended and round, oozing halfway across his thighs. He’s hit with simultaneous waves of embarrassment and arousal, suddenly acutely aware of Derek’s warm skin against his, but that’s okay, right? Derek’s seen him make a pig out of himself countless times.

Stiles hazards a glance at his face and finds Derek’s eyes hooked on his gut. Belatedly, he says, “‘Scuse me?”

Derek grunts, uncaring, flicks his eyes back to the TV, and Stiles relaxes minutely. He squirms and uses his one free hand to inch the hem of the shirt back down as much as he can. It takes some effort, and his lovehandles are still almost completely uncovered, but he decides it’s good enough.

He takes another bite and chases it with a few gulps of milk. This time, when he burps, he can feel it bubble up from his stomach and he has time to smother it behind his fist. He tries to slow down, but the glutton in him is threatening to take over, pushing him to eat and eat and eat.

Derek has taken a few bites, but nowhere near to the amount that Stiles has. Stiles licks his lips free of chocolate and says, “Thought you did all this because you were hungry, Derek. Don’t make me eat this whole cake by myself.”

Derek smirks. “Let’s not pretend that you couldn’t.”

“I don’t know, dude, I--” Stiles hiccups. “I’m getting a little--” He hiccups again. “A little full.”

“Come on, you’re not even half done, Stiles. You and I both know you can do better than that.”

He realizes he’s panting a little, and then realizes he’s half-hard, and then realizes that Derek is pushing him, teasing him. It’s been a long time since they’ve done it like this. Maybe a comment or two at a bar or sliding Stiles his leftovers when they’re out to eat with friends, but the last time it had been like _this_ was the night Stiles realized he was in love with him.

His heart shudders in his chest, and he says, “‘Course I can. I just love it when you say it.”

Stiles winks and takes the plate out of his hands, rests it on the crest of his belly and shovels another piece of cake in his mouth.

“Hey,” Derek protests. “I still wanted some, too, you know.”

“Who’s stopping you?”

The irritation on Derek’s face makes him smile so hard it’s difficult to chew. But then Derek leans over Stiles’s belly to take a bite, and Stiles realizes his mistake. The sight of it is strangely erotic: him and Derek both taking greedy bites out of the half-devoured cake resting on his gut. Stiles shivers, and he eats.

When there’s only about a third of it left, Stiles feels the weight of his swollen stomach press against his lungs and he’s panting with his mouth open. Gurgles and hiccups and burps slip out between bites. He’s getting dizzy, and sluggish, and sleepy, and he’s barely paying attention to the show.

Derek offers him his glass of milk and Stiles chugs it. He tosses the empty glass beside him on the couch so he doesn’t have to lean forward to reach the coffee table, and belches behind his hand before the sharp pain really has a chance to sink its claws in.

“Don’t tell me you’re done, already,” Derek says.

“Already? Jesus, dude, you--" Stiles burps. "You don’t _really_ want me to eat this whole cake, do you?”

Derek shrugs his shoulder, jostling it against him, and it makes Stiles’s whole body jiggle. Derek is chewing on his bottom lip, undercutting the nonchalance of the gesture, and Stiles suddenly feels lightheaded. His heart is pounding. Derek _doesn’t_ want that, does he? Why would he?

His brain, because it’s a fucking traitor, gets pulled back to the memories of that night he’d spent watching the Mets game at Derek’s place: that feast and what he could have sworn, at the time, was flirting, the unshakable feeling he had that Derek wanted Stiles to gorge himself in the exact same way Stiles wanted to gorge himself.

Before that all fell apart when he realized Derek wanted to be with someone else.

Derek says, “I’m just not used to you giving up so easily, that’s all. I’ve never seen you defeated by any kind of food before.”

A spark of competitiveness ignites in Stiles’s gut. “ _Defeated_? I have not been defeated.”

“Seems like you have, big guy. It’s okay. It was bound to happen someday.”

His stomach groans, full and achy and on the very edge of queasy, but Sitles’s desire to eat is spurred on by Derek’s doubt. He can’t _believe_ he still has to show this guy what he can do, after all this time. Derek tries to take another bite, but with a new, outrageous need to prove himself, Stiles growls and smacks his hand away, leans forward for a better angle.

He shoves cake in his mouth like he might never have another chance. It’s so delicious, it’s barely even a hardship, but his mouth is tired of chewing and his stomach is a bloated, churning mess. He burps with his mouth full of cake and sighs in relief at the tiny pocket of space it frees up.

Soon, there’s only a little left. A crumbled heap only slightly larger than normal slice of cake, but Stiles’s stomach _hurts_. The fullness of it feels like it reaches all the way up his chest. He feels massive, and he lets out a pained moan.

“Need some help?” Derek asks. Stiles lets his head fall back against the couch and shakes it from side to side, thinking that Derek is offering to eat the last bit, but Stiles still wants it for himself.

“Jus’ gimme--” he pants for breath and his stomach lets out a gurgle. “Gimme a minute.”

“You sure? I can--” Derek says, and Stiles jumps.

Derek’s touching his belly, just a light press of fingertips, and it takes all of a second for his shock to turn into trembling, desperate, _want_.

“Uh-h.” Stiles swallows. “Okay.”

Derek moves the plate onto the coffee table and turns his body to face Stiles. His face is an unreadable mask and Stiles would give anything to know what the hell he’s thinking. His fingers brush against Stiles’s gut, the part where underneath layers of blubber it’s tight and full and heavy. He tries to keep still, to not let himself rock into it or sigh in pleasure, but his heart is in his throat and he’s sure his own face is giving away every thought, every feeling.

Derek gets bolder, slides his hand across the enormous arch of it, pressing in harder, and Stiles burps, helplessly. He gasps when Derek does it again, circling his hand in soothing, gentle motions. He shuts his eyes so he doesn’t have to see it, doesn’t have to look at Derek’s face, but then all there’s left to do is _feel_ , and his skin is hot and electric where Derek is touching him. Stiles melts into it. He can’t help himself.

“Oh,” he says.

Derek clears his throat next to him. “Good?”

“Yeah. Good.”

 _Good_ as if it wasn’t rapidly approaching the top five sensations he’s ever felt in his whole fucking life, as if he wasn’t desperately fighting back the urge to writhe, to touch himself, to kiss Derek, to _eat_.

He’s getting too into it, he needs to stop, Derek doesn’t know what he’s doing to Stiles, how much he craves it. _He needs to stop_. Stiles opens his eyes and grabs Derek’s wrist, stilling his hand. His blood pumps like fire through his veins. “Um, thanks,” he says. “That was. Nice.”

Derek snatches his hand back and Stiles feels the loss all the way down to his bones. “You’re welcome.”

His face is gentle and searching, and Stiles can’t take it. Needs to get things back on semi-familiar ground, navigable territory. He says, “Think I’m ready to finish that cake, now.”

And it’s true. Whether it was the short break or the belly rubs, the ache in Stiles’s gut has eased enough that he feels like he probably won’t explode if he has more. Derek hands him the plate, and he eats.

For a moment, Derek is watching him, but Stiles tries to keep his eyes focused on the TV screen, even if he’s not absorbing anything that’s happening on it.

He takes it slow, this time. Small bites that give his abused stomach time to adjust, and tries not to think about Derek’s gaze and what it means.

Eventually, Derek turns to sit normally and watches the show, too. Neither of them say anything for a long time.

Stiles gets a case of the overfull hiccups as he’s eating. Derek huffs out a laugh and Stiles elbows him as much as the zero space between them allows, and suddenly everything feels normal again. Despite what happened, despite everything, Stiles is strangely put at ease. He’s still pressed tight along Derek’s side, and he’s still a little buzzed, his belly is stuffed and achy, and he’s _unbelievably_ comfortable. His eyes fight to stay open. He scoops the last of the crumbs and frosting off the plate and practically licks it clean.

The ache in his belly is nothing compared to the strange feeling of accomplishment it gives him to have finally finished it. Stiles lets out a small, satisfied burp, dumps the plate to the side, and pets his bloated gut as a reward for a job well-done.

“See?” Derek says, “You did it.”

“Mmm.” Stiles’s eyes slip shut. “Thanks f’r believing in me,” he slurs.

“Any time.”

“‘M gonna fall asleep.”

“That’s okay. You earned it.”

Stiles snorts. He wriggles into the couch cushions and says, “Hey, Derek?”

“Yeah, Stiles?”

“‘M glad you came over.”

“Me, too.”

Stiles’s lips pull into a little smile and he slides into a peaceful food coma.

 

***

 

Stiles groans, blinks his eyes open, squints against soft morning light filtered through floaty glowing dust particles. His first thought is that he had some kind of bizarrely realistic, elaborate, junk-food induced dream about Derek. It wouldn’t be the first time.

He realizes his alarm is going off somewhere near him. Stiles yawns, stretches his arms outside the blanket covering him, and his spine gives a series of satisfying pops. He rolls onto his side to reach for his phone, but instead he finds that on the coffee table beside him, there’s a glass of water with a note underneath it. He turns off his alarm on autopilot and picks up the note in his other hand. It’s slightly blurred from the ring of condensation, but still legible.

_Called a cab after you fell asleep. Thanks for letting me crash here. -Derek._

Stiles’s heart restarts. He sits bolt upright and lets the memories wash over him. That _happened_. It was _real_.

He flips over the note and on the other side there’s a grid with eight neat squares, one filled in with Derek’s initials. Across the top, it reads, _LA LUNA PIENA FREQUENT DINERS' CARD. Eight desserts and your ninth is free._

Stiles laughs, in shock, delirious. He stares at the note for several minutes, stroking his fingers over the careful lettering. He texts Derek, _Finally_ , and gets up to get ready for work.

Stiles eyes himself in the bathroom mirror: his messy bed-head and pink, pillow creased face. His tight, ill-fitting pajamas, the way his t-shirt is stretched over his empty, bloated belly so much it rides up at the hem and it’s covered with grease stains and chocolate stains. He looks exactly like a guy who’d spent the night stuffing his fat gut all night until he passed out on the couch.

His morning wood is standing at full attention as he steps on the bathroom scale, as he's kneading his doughy belly while he waits for the numbers to settle. The scale reads: 312.1 lbs.

Stiles sways and supports his hand against the wall. He weighed himself just last week, but last night’s binge alone must have put him over that weight by five pounds worth of bloating. He takes a quick shot of the scale and sends it to wolf-it-down with the caption, _Might have gone a little overboard last night ;)_

 _God_ , Stiles thinks. If Derek really _did_ bake like that for him all the time, encourage him like that all the time, his weight would absolutely blow up. He’d be enormous, constantly-stuffed, wildly fat and getting fatter by the day.

He thinks about the frequent diner’s card and makes up his mind. He’s definitely going to La Luna Piena tonight to work on getting that free dessert.


	5. Satisfaction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He leads Derek across the apartment and into his room, flicking on the light switch before pointing out the bathroom door. “Sorry if it smells in here or whatever, I totally Febrezed my shit before everyone came over, but I didn’t have time to go to the laundromat--” Stiles turns back to face Derek and finds him staring at Stiles’s desk chair, looking faintly horrified. “Are you having a stroke?”
> 
> “You?” Derek turns his head to look at him, and there’s something wild in his eyes and his brows are creased. He’s confused, or surprised, Stiles can’t quite place it.
> 
> “Me? Dude, are you okay?”
> 
> Stiles reaches out to clasp a hand on Derek’s shoulder, but Kira bursts in through the open doorway saying, “Hey, Stiles, do you have a baking sheet?”
> 
> “Uh, yeah, it’s in the top cabinet above the fridge. Hold on, I’ll get it, you’re too short.” Stiles looks back at Derek, who’s still looking a little spooked. “You good, man? Do you need anything?”
> 
> “No, I’m.” Derek waves him off, shakes his head as if clearing it from a fog. “I’m fine.” He pushes past Stiles, makes a beeline for the bathroom and slams the door.

Stiles’s love for baseball transcends basically everything, up to and including football. The Super Bowl is irrelevant. His annual sports-centered party is invariably reserved for the final game of the World Series. He’d taken the day off weeks in advance and all of his friends are coming to his place to watch the game: even Isaac, who hates baseball like he hates most things Stiles is interested in, and Lydia, who mostly just hates the unbridled machismo of people watching sports.

But most importantly, Derek is coming.

Stiles hasn’t seen him in a week, not since _that night._ That embarrassing, overwhelming, _thrilling_ night when Derek baked him his own cake, goaded him into eating the entire thing, and gave him a brief but _very_ memorable belly rub to help settle his stomach. Stiles had been nervous to face him again after that, but he isn’t the one who’s been avoiding it. Derek is.

To be fair, Stiles had given avoidance some healthy consideration, but he was too curious, too tragically hopeful to go through with it. And ultimately, the temptation of Derek’s restaurant and his looming free dessert had been too much to resist.

Stiles had gone to La Luna Piena two nights in a row, and one day for lunch, before he’d given up on seeing Derek’s handsome face. It’s not like it’s unusual not to see the head chef of a restaurant, Sitles knows, but Derek is different. He usually at least comes out to greet him when he visits.

This week? Nothing. Stiles doesn’t know what to make of it.

On the bright side, Stiles’s frequent diners’ card has three more boxes initialled in, so if nothing else, at least he’s halfway to his free dessert.

 

Derek had only been to Stiles’s place that once, and the place had, admittedly, not been at its best. And unfortunately, Stiles doesn’t think Derek had been drunk enough to have blocked out the state of his messy apartment. Some left-over instinct from his mom has him wanting to impress with an acceptable level of cleanliness, this time, so he spends the better part of the day trying to make the place habitable. Derek doesn’t need to know how he _really_ lives.  

Since he’d been so hard at work, Stiles had only managed to eat a couple slices of cold pizza and a Poptart in the entire day. He’s _starving._ So starving that in the couple of hours before his friends are supposed to start coming over, he finds himself snacking intermittently on his party food: chips and dip, beer, a (formerly) three foot long sub.

When he finishes putting all his clothes in an overflowing hamper so that people can get to the ensuite bathroom without tripping and killing themselves, Stiles takes a moment to eye his reflection in the full length mirror on the back of his door. He’s shirtless and sweaty, and so fat, now, that even though his stomach isn’t empty, it’s packed with enough blubber that it’s much harder to tell the difference than it used to be.

He can only just grab his plump love handles all the way around, even with his long fingers. His overhang is so pronounced he can fit both of his hands under it, nearly hiding them from view. His chest is blubbery and rounded, with rolls wrapping around to his back, leagues away from the flat pecs he once had. And everything else, from his face, to his arms, his fingers, his thighs, his ass, looks _unmistakably_ fat. Even after the bloating had settled after his last weigh-in, he’s been circling three-hundred-and-ten pounds every day since, and it _shows_. There is no feature, no angle that hides exactly how big Stiles has gotten.

That familiar tingle of heat washes over him, and he weighs his options. He has at least an hour before anyone else gets to the party, and maybe he should spend that time setting up, but Stiles bites his lip and grabs his belly in a tight fist. He decides it can wait.

He takes a long, long shower, and by the time he’s done he’s feeling loose and relaxed, but he only has a few minutes left.

Stiles throws on his favorite Mets t-shirt, having had to officially retire his jersey months ago. The fabric stretches over his body, clings on every roll, but he’s beyond caring. It’s hot, he thinks, in a way no one else will truly appreciate.

Well. Not no one. He takes out his phone and snaps a pic for wolf-it-down, shirt lifted up high to show off his chest.

Wolf-it-down responds within seconds. _You look hungry, fat boy._

_How did you know :( I’m starving._

_Eat well for me tonight. I’ll be busy watching the game with some friends, but I’ll check in later to make sure you’ve fed that fat gut of yours enough._

_Anything for you ;)_

Stiles manages to devour another portion of the sandwich, cut carefully so it hopefully doesn’t look like it’s already been broken into, and then the doorbell rings.

Scott and Kira make themselves at home, and a few minutes later, Allison gets back from work, carrying a box of leftover sheriff’s station donuts.

As everyone trickles in, Stiles realizes that, with the exception of Jackson, all of his friends have brought even more snacks. This means more food for Stiles to much on, which means his stupid too-tight jeans are starting to pinch at his waist already and it’s going to be _hours_ before he has a hope in hell of unbuttoning them.

Derek comes bearing a plate of perfect pigs in a blanket: their flaky, buttery crust sprinkled with herbs and clearly homemade. Stiles salivates looking at them, and immediately pops one in his mouth.

“ _Holy fuck,_ Derek,” he moans through a mouthful. “Don’t do this to me. I’m gonna have to eat them all, there’s no other choice. Sorry, everyone, these are mine.” Stiles shoves another in his mouth until his cheeks are bulging out. His eyes are shut to savor the taste when the plate is yanked out of his hand. He opens his eyes to see Allison carrying them to the kitchen. “Hey!”

“Save some for the rest of us!”

“Rude!”

Derek smiles, a little shy, and says, “Go ahead and have as many as you like. No one appreciates my cooking like you do, Stiles.”

Stiles stifles the ridiculous urge to puff out his chest and his belly, but he can’t quite keep from smiling. _I missed you,_ he thinks, but he knows it would be stupid to say. “Oh, I appreciate it, all right. Stopped by your restaurant to work on my free dessert this week.”

“Yeah,” Derek grins. “A few times, I hear.”

“Only three.”

“Oh, _only._ ”

“I didn’t see you.”

“I was working, Stiles.”

“Never stopped you before.”

“Fine. In the future, for my frequent diners _only,_ I’ll make an exception and come out to say hi, even if I’m swamped.”

“That’s all I ask.”

“Come on, before those vultures take all my hard work.”

Derek grabs his wrist and pulls him into the kitchen, lets go before anyone sees him do it. A little dizzy from the rush of attention, Stiles lets him, and then parks himself with his butt resting against the counter, right next to the pigs in a blanket, and then eats his fill.

Allison fights him for a few, and Boyd comes by to steal a couple for him and Erica, but Stiles gets a majority share because Derek helps guard them. They’re more filling than Stiles had expected, and he burps, rumbling and smothered in his throat.

The game won’t start for another half an hour, so even after they’re gone, Stiles stands in the kitchen surrounded by a rotating group of friends and a seemingly endless buffet of snacks.

Derek leaves his side a few minutes later, makes his way out of the kitchen, and Stiles refuses to be pathetic enough to miss the steady presence of him, close enough to touch if Stiles would just reach for him.

As he’s gazing after Derek, Stiles feels someone sidle up beside him.

“So,” Allison says, “When are you gonna make your move?”

Stiles’s eyes widen, but he pretends not to know what she’s talking about. “Move?”

She leans close to whisper in his ear, “On Derek, duh.”

“Hmm, never? Did you forget he’s totally head over heels for someone else?”

“Please. You should _see_ the way he looks at you.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Stop meddling.”

“That night he came over, he was still here when I got home. He put a blanket on you and tucked you in, and wrote you a little note, it was so _cute._ You can’t tell me that’s nothing.”

“Yeah, I can,” Stiles says, stubbornly. But listening to her ignites that tiny flame of hope that maybe, just _maybe_ Derek feels something for him. He hates it. “We’ve been through this. He's not into me, so just let it go.”

Allison sighs, “Not gonna happen. You’re both so obvious. Make your move.” She taps him on the cheek with the palm of her hand, reaches behind him for a brownie, and stuffs it in her mouth.

Stiles steps out of the kitchen to avoid any further conversation and passes by Derek, who’s hovering at the door of the half-bath. He nudges him and says “There’s another bathroom, if you need it.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

Stiles jerks his head. “It’s this way.”

He leads Derek across the apartment and into his room, flicking on the light switch before pointing out the bathroom door. “Sorry if it smells in here or whatever, I totally Febrezed my shit before everyone came over, but I didn’t have time to go to the laundromat--” Stiles turns back to face Derek and finds him staring at Stiles’s desk chair, looking faintly horrified. “Are you having a stroke?”

“You?” Derek turns his head to look at him, and there’s something wild in his eyes and his brows are creased. He’s confused, or surprised, Stiles can’t quite place it.

“Me? Dude, are you okay?”

Stiles reaches out to clasp a hand on Derek’s shoulder, but Kira bursts in through the open doorway saying, “Hey, Stiles, do you have a baking sheet?”

“Uh, yeah, it’s in the top cabinet above the fridge. Hold on, I’ll get it, you’re too short.” Stiles looks back at Derek, who’s still looking a little spooked. “You good, man? Do you need anything?”

“No, I’m.” Derek waves him off, shakes his head as if clearing it from a fog. “I’m fine.” He pushes past Stiles, makes a beeline for the bathroom and slams the door.

Stiles stares after him for a moment before remembering Kira.

“What was that about?” she says.

“I seriously have _no_ idea. Come on.”

 

When Kira has pizza rolls heating up in the oven, Stiles settles with everyone in the living room. He sees Derek re-emerge from the bathroom, wedge himself between Boyd and the arm of the couch, and pull out his phone without meeting Stiles’s eyes.

He keeps an eye on Derek after that, sending him sideways glances from the hideous checkered armchair he’s nestled in, but Derek seems more or less content after the game starts. He eats a couple handfuls of tiny pretzels and he seems to talk to everyone else about as much as he usually does. The only noticeable difference is that Derek suddenly has an aversion to eye contact with Stiles, specifically.

On any normal day, Stiles catches Derek looking at him for no apparent reason pretty frequently. It’s one of those things that drives Stiles nuts because he can’t quite figure out why he’s doing it and it gives him heart palpitations.

Now, there’s none of that. Stiles wouldn’t have thought this would make him _more_ crazy but it definitely, definitely does. His skin is buzzing with annoyance and his mouth is buzzing with all the spice Isaac put on the nachos and he’s ready to crawl out of his own skin.

He eats another mouthful of nachos and realizes he’s already emptied his heaping plate of them, only halfway through the second inning. And that’s on top of all the other snacking he’d been doing. Stiles stifles a burp in his throat and sets his plate down.

He’s feeling antsy and full of restless energy, jiggling his leg between glances at Derek, before he gives up and goes to the kitchen for more food. He talks to Erica and Boyd while he eats a plate of chips and pizza rolls, and then cracks open another jar of dip.

Stiles’s gut is filled up just enough to make him want to run his hands over it. Just enough to make him want to start shoveling food in his mouth. He’s gotten so used to excess, to eating past his limits, it’s difficult for him to turn it off, even if he’s got a game to watch, and a party to host, and a Derek to worry about.

He hovers on the outskirts of the living room and manages to get absorbed in the game for all of five minutes before he caves. On a commercial break, he heads for his and Allison’s ensuite bathroom for a little extra privacy, sets his phone propped against the toothbrush jar and opens his timed photo app.

Stiles lets his shirt tuck in just slightly between his chest and the crest of his belly so it rides up enough to show an inch or two of his overhang. He takes three pics: one from the side, one from the front, and one where he’s grabbing his belly in two hands, fat spilling out and over his fingers in huge, doughy more-than-handfuls. Stiles sends them all to wolf-it-down, splashes some water on his face to will down the heat under his skin, and goes back to the kitchen for another round of food.

He finds Derek leaning against the counter, staring at the phone in his hand. His ears are bright red and Stiles wants to run his fingertips over them to feel how warm they are.

“What’s up,” Stiles says. He stops a careful distance away and leans against the same counter.

Derek startles slightly, like he hadn’t realized Stiles was there, and shoves his phone into his pocket.

Stiles holds his hands up, “Jeez, bad timing?”

“No.”

He takes in Derek’s wide-eyed, blushing face, his hand still gripped around the phone in his pocket. “What, is someone sending you nudes?” Stiles says it with a smile, at first, but then the reality of it hits him when Derek’s face goes tight and annoyed like it does when he’s called out on something. “Whoa, really?” His stomach sinks, but he holds out a fist for Derek to pound. “Dude.”

He holds out a lazy fist and lets Stiles do all the work. “Yeah,” Derek says, stretching out the vowel sound nice and slow. “About that. Um. Stiles, there’s something I need to--”

The group in the living room shout uproariously, interrupting him, but Stiles fills in the blanks. He wants to talk about his not-boyfriend. And fine, sure, he’s been waiting for it. Stiles definitely considers them good enough friends that he’s been low key annoyed that Derek hasn’t really talked to him about his relationship before.

On the other hand, a big part of him is deeply grateful, because he doesn’t actually want to hear about it.

Stiles can hear the replay and the announcers, can hear his friends just in the other room yelling. Stiles grits his teeth, frustrated, now, that he’s missing the World Series so he can listen to Derek talk about his relationship with another guy. He’s really not in the mood to be someone’s ear, but he tries to be gentle about it, starts backing up towards the door.

“Yeah, look, sorry dude, I don’t--”

“Wait--” Derek grabs Stiles’s arm in a grip that’s barely more than grazing him, but Stiles freezes anyway, and Derek bumps into his gut before he can stop moving. They’re right in each others’ space, Derek’s hands splayed over Stiles’s pudgy arms and their stomachs pressed together. Heat rolls in Stiles’s blood.

Someone comes up behind Stiles and pushes him out of the way enough so they can squeeze by and Stiles’s heart jolts into his throat.

_Isaac._

“Sorry,” Scott says from behind him. He clasps his hands around Stiles’s shoulders just as Derek breaks away. “I tried to stop him.”

“You what,” Isaac says, piling food onto his paper plate.

“Too late now, dude.”

Derek sighs and drops his hand, backs out of his space. Stiles considers going back to the game like he’d wanted to not moments ago, but his curiosity is starting to get the better of him, despite himself. Something’s got Derek worked up and _Stiles_ is worked up because _he’s_ worked up. Stiles watches the rest of them talk while he sips a beer and dips baby carrots in ranch dressing, waiting for a moment alone with Derek.

Derek’s eyes never once meet his.

He doesn’t know what to think about the conversation Derek wants to have with him. It’s the insatiable desire to _know_ combined with not really wanting to think about it, terrified of what the answer might be. Are they getting serious, or having trouble? Does Derek want Stiles’s advice? And Jesus, why would he? Stiles is a mess. He’s not equipped to give relationship advice.

Stiles wishes he had a balcony with a melancholic city view to go brood on like the asshole he’s brooding about, but if he did it’d probably have his loser friends on it, too, and it would ruin the vibe.

Stiles kills a bag of potato chips and restlessly flits around the kitchen. He’s pretty sure he demolished that bag nearly by himself and he’s feeling spectacularly bloated, his belly arched exaggeratedly, leading him by a few inches.

What Stiles needs is a distraction.

He makes sure he’s tucked in a corner where no one can look over his shoulder, picks his phone out of his pocket and opens his chat with wolf-it-down. There’s still no response, but Stiles has never been afraid to double, triple, quadruple-text. He says, _Come on, bro, you gotta help distract me._

Stiles stares at his phone for a solid two minutes before he gives up on getting a response, gives up on talking to Derek, and goes back to the living room. In the absence of a free chair, Stiles collapses to the floor. His eyes float unseeingly over the TV screen while his brain projects a parade of disaster scenarios. He steals five mediocre, not-Derek’s-pigs-in-a-blanket off of Jackson’s paper plate before he notices and smacks him in the back of the head.

“What the fuck, get your own!” Jackson snatches his plate up into his lap before Stiles can swipe another snack.

Stiles’s lap vibrates with a text. He fumbles it open with a silent prayer of thanks. _Party not going well?_ It says.

Stiles types back, _No, it’s fine. One of my friends is being weird._

 _Sorry._ Stiles watches the little ellipses of wolf-it-down’s incoming text for a long time before he closes the app and sighs. Derek comes back in the room and sits on the floor, a healthy distance away from Stiles, and he’s staring at his phone, tapping at the screen. It grates on Stiles’s last nerve and he’s about to say something that’s probably stupid. But then he gets a new message of his own. _I can’t talk right now._

Great. No distractions, then. _Yeah okay fine, see if I send you any more pics, spoilsport._

A second later, Derek’s phone chimes softly. He picks it up, stares at it for a long moment, and puts it back down on the floor next to him.

Some kind of alarm goes off in Stiles’s head that he can’t ignore. Some kind of irrational, vaguely paranoid gut feeling. If pressed, he wouldn’t be able to explain why, but something about this, all of this, it _means_ something. He can feel it. He keeps Derek in his line of sight so he can see him out of the corner of his eye while he types. _What did you think, by the way?_

Derek’s phone chimes. Stiles’s heart starts a frantic pace in his chest. He types, _You know I only bought this shirt a year ago? I wonder what happened…_

Derek’s phone chimes, again. He picks it up and thumbs off the sound before typing something, thumbs moving quickly over the keyboard.

Seconds later, Stiles gets, _Later._

Stiles can’t bear to consider what this might mean, can’t even let himself finish thinking it, because what if he’s wrong? What if it’s just a coincidence? He types, _It could be the 50+ pounds I put on this year…_

Derek’s phone is clutched in his hand, his eyes fixed on the screen.

_You should do another comparison for me. I’ve gotten so fat since the last one._

Wolf-it-down starts typing, and Stiles watches Derek’s fingers move in perfect time.

The message he gets says, _Stiles, please. Later._

Stiles.

His heart lurches into his throat. The phone slips from his hands with a soft thud on the carpet. His eyes snap to Derek’s face, but Derek’s gaze is directed towards the TV, unfocused and tense. Stiles can’t breathe.

“Oh my god,” he says, but Derek doesn’t look at him. He’s too far away to touch, and he doesn’t want to draw the attention of anyone else, so Stiles glares with all the force he can muster, willing Derek to just fucking _look at him._ Derek waits long enough that Stiles thinks he’s going to pop a blood vessel, but he finally, finally meets Stiles’s eyes. Stiles tilts his head and flicks his eyes aggressively at the kitchen so that Derek will take the fucking hint already.

Derek sighs, resigned, and gets to his feet. To avoid suspicion, Stiles waits for a few seconds, heart lodged in his throat, before he does, too. With his belly full, and over 300 pounds to support, he has to brace himself on Jackson’s knee and the arm of the couch to push himself up, but he’s too wound up to hear Jackson’s protests or make any comebacks.

His feet carry him to the kitchen where Derek is waiting with his arms folded, staring holes into the linoleum floor.

“Are you--Derek. Does wolf-it-down mean anything to you?” Derek’s eyes widen and he flicks them around the room like he’s looking for an escape route. Stiles lets out a breath, harsh and loud in the silence between them. “You,” Stiles whispers. “It’s you.”

“Stiles…”

“Just--answer me.”

Derek and he pauses for a long, devastating moment before saying, “Yes.”

Stiles’s heart stutters. “Jesus _fuck,_ dude! Oh my god. Oh my _god._ This is--”

Derek looks sharply back towards the living room, with about as much panic as Stiles feels. “Jesus, shut up, Stiles.” He steps closer, but Stiles holds his hands out to keep him away, backs into the kitchen counter.

“You shut up!” He tries to lower his voice but he can’t quite do it. Not with how much energy fills his body, adrenaline and something like fight or flight, although he’s not sure this warrants either. But Derek has never said anything, in all this time, in over a _year,_ and Stiles doesn’t think that can mean anything good for him. He has no idea what it means. “Fuck. You--how long have you _known,_ exactly?”

“Not long,” Derek says. “Like two hours, maybe.”

“Oh my god.” Stiles’s mind goes back to the moment when Derek took one look at Stiles’s bedroom and bolted. The room that’s the background to nearly every picture and video Stiles had ever sent to wolf-it-down. The room that has posters on the walls and stickers on the arms of his desk chair. “Earlier. My room.”

“Yeah.”

Stiles drags his hands over his face. “Jesus Christ.”

“I didn’t know what to do.”

“Fuck, would you have told me, if I hadn’t figured it out?”

Derek grimaces and says, “Yes, of course. Stiles, I--”

Out of the corner of his eye, Stiles catches sight of movement. He spins around and sees Isaac and Erica hovering in the doorway, the rest of them staring from the living room with the TV’s volume turned down.

He hazards a glance back at Derek who looks wide-eyed and uncomfortable, and says, “Uh.”

“Are you guys... okay?” Erica says.

“Oh yeah, totally, I’m only having a minor crisis, no big deal.”

Derek puts a hand on his arm, hesitant, fingers barely brushing his skin. Stiles flinches anyway. Derek whispers, “Stiles let’s… talk about this later, okay?”

The thought of waiting through the party, for the game to end and his friends to leave, is _agony._ “No. No, we need to talk about this right now.”

Derek sighs. “Okay. Let’s go, then.”

“ _Where?_ ”

“Just--” Derek looks around again, at all their friends frozen in place, looking at them. “Come on.”

“I’m not talking about this in the fucking hallway,” Stiles hisses.

“We can go to my place, okay? Calm down.”

“Don’t tell me to calm down, Derek!” Stiles flings his arms out, gesturing wildly at everyone else, who are still staring like it’s any of their business. “Are you guys fucking serious? Don’t you people have any common decency?!”

Isaac crosses his arms. “What the hell is up with you, Stilinski?”

Stiles resists the urge to push him out of the way, but he does shoulder past him with some difficulty. There’s not nearly enough room in the doorjamb for both of them but Stiles is beyond freaking out and he’s barely resisting interrogating Derek in front of everyone.

He doesn’t look anyone in the eye as he strides to the door. He can feel Derek hovering behind him, feel his big, warm hand touch his shoulder gingerly as if to try to calm him down.

But Stiles isn’t remotely approaching _calm,_ not when his world has flipped upside down and the two people he’d come to care so much about were, apparently, one in the same. Even faced with the evidence, even after Derek _admitted_ it, it still doesn’t feel real.

Stiles shakes off Derek’s touch and stops a few steps outside his door. He holds up his hand to tell Derek to wait and sucks in deep breaths, trying to will his heartbeat to slow. Illogically, embarrassment rolls through him, knowing that Derek saw all those pictures, videos of Stiles’s gut and him stuffing his face. “So. You’re the one who’s been messaging me. All this time we’ve been. You’ve been--”

Derek rolls his eyes. “What happened to not talking about this in the hallway.”

“I changed my mind!” Stiles doesn’t have it in him to wait until they get somewhere more private. He has to know.

What does it mean that Derek likes his online persona, his body and the things that he does enough to keep their connection going this whole time, but not enough to move things forward with him? And even worse, why didn’t he make a move on _Stiles?_ The real, flesh and blood Stiles who’s been right in front of him, who’s been so completely, staggeringly head over heels for Derek he couldn’t have possibly missed it?

Even Scott noticed. _Scott._

“Why are you so upset,” Derek says, “I thought--”

“I’m not upset!” Derek narrows his eyes, and his jaw ticks in annoyance. Stiles takes a breath. “I’m… processing.”

“Okay”

“Derek. Does... Do you--”

“Yes.”

Stiles swipes his hand through his hair, across his face. “You don’t even know what I’m asking. _I_ don’t even know what I’m asking.”

Derek takes a step back, towards the stairs. “Stiles, let’s just. Let’s go, we can--”

“No, Derek, come on. We need to talk, we need to figure out what the hell this means! Do you… do you even _like_ me?”

“Of course I do.”

“Not just--” Stiles lets out a frustrated breath. “I mean--you never--”

“I wanted to,” he says, and his face looks pleading and so earnest.

Stiles stops and only then does he realize he’d been pacing. “Yeah?”

“Yes! Of course I did.”

“Well?” Stiles says, too loud, and too desperate. “Why _didn’t_ you? Why the fuck didn’t you say anything?”

“I didn’t--I still don’t _know,_ Stiles. Do you like _me?_ ”

“Are you fucking _serious?_ Duh, dude!”

Stiles says it so aggressively and Derek matches him, even though it should be good, it _is_ good. He doesn’t know why they’re still yelling. “So why didn’t _you_ say anything?” Derek says, accusatory.

“Derek, you said you were talking to someone already, what was I supposed to do, huh? And wolf-it-down, he _\--you--_ said you lived in New York! And you were into someone else! What the fuck was that about?”

“I don’t like to meet people from the internet, or tell people my name or anything.”

“Ugh, god, you are _such_ an old man! How are you only _twenty-seven?_ ”

Derek shuts his eyes and his nostrils flare as he breathes deeply through his nose. A door opens down the hallway and his neighbor pokes her head out to ask, “Is everything alright? Stiles?”

“It’s fine, Ms. Morell, I’m fine. We’re just talking.”

“Okay.” She looks suspiciously at Derek, but thankfully retreats into her own apartment. “Sorry to intrude. Let me know if you need anything.”

“Thanks. We’re fine. Thanks.” The door shuts and Stiles takes a deep breath.

“I was going to tell you,” Derek says, lowering his voice, “But I waited too long.” He looks down at his feet, bites his lip and says, “And then I couldn’t get a read on you. One minute you seemed interested and the next…”

Stiles sighs. He pauses for a moment to stare at the ugly pattern on the carpet and try to put himself back together. “I know the feeling. Jesus.”

“And that night at my place--”

Yeah, that night. The one Stiles had spent countless hours trying to dissect. The one with an extravagant candlelit home-cooked meal and what Stiles could only describe as _flirting._ A sudden realization hits him.

“Oh my god. You were really trying to romance me, weren’t you?”

“No. Kind of.”

“ _Fuck..._ Wait a minute, Derek, you said you had a guy already!”

“Yeah, that guy was _also you._ Apparently.”

“Wh--I… huh.” If he hadn’t been panicking so much, if he’d been firing on all cylinders, it would have been obvious that the convergence of both of these worlds meant that the _other guy,_ in both cases, was _Stiles._ He was the one wolf-it-down was into, and he was the one Derek was into, all at once. It hadn’t really hit him until this moment that _Derek had been pining for him, too._ “So… I’m the other guy? The one you have a thing for?”

“ _Obviously,_ Stiles.”

Stiles bristles again at his tone. “Just making sure, Derek, you could have someone else!”

“Well, I don’t!”

“Well… good!”

“ _Good._ ”

“Me either! Obviously.”

“ _Obviously._ ”

Stiles’s hands are on his hips and he thinks, _why are we still yelling?_ He takes a deep breath. “For awhile, I mean. It’s... just been you.”

“Stiles.” Derek’s shoulders slump, just slightly from the tension that pulls at his whole body, his face. He takes one step, two steps towards him, slow and deliberate. Stiles has to fight with himself not to move. He’s not sure if he wants to back up or careen into Derek’s space. “You drive me crazy.”

Derek takes another step, and they’re close now, too close. Stiles’s throat is dry. He swallows and breathes, “Uh. Sorry?”

“No. Fuck.” Derek shuts his eyes as if bracing himself for something, breathes in and out through his nose. He takes another step forward. “Shut up,” he says, and he’s in Stiles’s space, face inches away.

Derek kisses him.

His hands bracket Stiles’s face but his fingertips barely brush the skin as he drags his lips across his, hot and open. Shivers break out across the back of Stiles’s neck, and then it’s over before he can savor it. Stiles licks his lips, takes a shuddering breath.

“Oh,” he whispers in the little space between their lips, so soft it sounds like a sigh. He clears his throat to make his voice come out firmer. “Oh.”

He can hear the smile in Derek’s voice when he says, “Yeah, oh.” Stiles opens his eyes and his heart stops for a second when he sees it, just the barest flash of teeth, small and private and fond. “Does that answer your questions? Can we get out of here, now?”

Derek doesn’t pull away, but Stiles grabs onto the front of his shirt to keep him from trying. He says, “No, uh. Just--just one more thing.”

Stiles pulls him in so they’re pressed round belly to flat stomach and takes Derek’s lips. He pours everything he has into it, everything he feels, Stiles’s heart completely on display, and it’s too much. He almost pulls back, but then Derek sucks in a breath, melts into him, fingers winding through Stiles’s hair.

Stiles moans. It’s a good kiss. A really fucking good kiss, but there’s a part of him that can’t accept that it’s really happening. He’d spent so long waiting, wanting, that feeling Derek against him, his kisses hungry and searching, stubble rasping against his lips, it’s too good to be true.

And then Derek’s hands find Stiles’s hips, grasping as if he’d just been waiting for permission to touch. The hem of Stiles’s t-shirt is so short that just covering Stiles’s love handles with his hands has Derek’s fingertips curling under the hem and brushing his bare skin. Stiles’s head tilts back, breaking the kiss to gasp for air.

“Ah, Derek,” he bites out. Derek’s mouth latches to his throat, tongue scorching hot. “ _Oh._ ” Helplessly, Stiles’s head tilts to the side, asking for more. He shivers all the way down his spine. “Oh my god.”

Derek’s hands squeeze Stiles’s sides just a little, teasing or testing, and Stiles regrets that they’re not kissing anymore, because now Stiles’s mouth is free to make the most embarrassing noises he’s ever heard himself make: a litany of strangled little gasps and _oh’_ s. But the way Derek’s lips drag over his throat more than makes up for it And that’s not even touching what his hands are doing: dragging across his skin, getting lost in all those plump rolls along his sides, his back, grabbing and squeezing all that extra flesh.

No one’s ever touched him like that, like they want him, his body, his _fat._ Derek touches him like he wants to worship every inch of him, like he sees Stiles the way he sees himself. And those touches coming from Derek are more than Stiles had ever allowed himself to hope for.

It’s overwhelming, and too heated for a public hallway, where any of his neighbors, any of his friends could see them, but Stiles doesn’t _ever_ want to stop.

“Derek, god, are you ever gonna take me back to your apartment or are you just gonna ravish me right here? Because I--ah, I know I said no to the hallway, earlier, but I may need to revise my stance in light of new information--”

Derek licks into his mouth, wet and hot. He’s not sure that it answers his question, but suddenly he’s not sure what the question is anymore because Derek backs him into the wall and their bodies are pressed together, thigh to chest. Stiles moans into the kiss, wraps his arms around Derek’s shoulders. Derek is so hard against him, rigid with muscle and sinking into the softness of Stiles’s belly. The difference makes Stiles ache with the desire to see how they look together.

And then Derek’s breaking the kiss and backing away. Stiles feels the loss acutely, suddenly cold from the sweat cooling on his skin without the heat of Derek’s body, and he sways forward, chasing it. He blinks his eyes open and Derek’s smiling, lips swollen, eyes glittering and dark.

He puts his hands in his pockets and walks backwards with a swagger in his step. He tilts his head to the side, towards the staircase behind him. “Come on, Stiles,” he says.

“What. No, come back.”

Derek laughs, the sound echoing as he jogs down the stairwell.

“Honestly, dude,” Stiles says, but he’s following him, anyway, “I was gearing up to keep freaking out for another few minutes. This whole thing wasn’t even on my radar at the time, so really I _never_ meant no ravishing in the hallway. I would _love_ for you to ravish me in the hallway.” Stiles’s breathing picks up into a pant as he tries to catch up to him. “Derek! Wait.”

When he catches up, they’re outside. The cold air bites at his skin, but Derek holds out a hand for Stiles to take and he can’t bring himself to care. Derek is doing a really poor job of holding back a smile, especially when Stiles clasps their hands together, tight and warm. He feels more lucid, now, cooled down, and he’s hit by the absurdity of the situation. A giddy, breathless laugh bubbles out of him.

Derek only lets go of his hand when he opens the passenger side door of his car for him. Stiles throws himself in and says, simpering, “Such a gentleman.”

“Shut up,” Derek says, and slams the door.

It had been a few months since Stiles had been in Derek’s car. The Camaro is cramped inside, not exactly built for someone of Stiles’s stature, but aside from the hard dip the car makes when he gets into the passenger’s seat, Stiles fits just fine.

Until he goes to put on the seat belt, and even pulled all the way down, it doesn’t quite close. He grunts, tugging as if that would make it longer somehow. He has to suck in and tuck the belt under his gut to get it to buckle, and even then it’s _barely._

Stiles glances at Derek in the driver’s seat and a vague sense of embarrassment washes over him looking at Derek’s smug, smirking face. And then he realizes with a rush that he doesn’t have anything to be embarrassed about, not anymore. Because Derek _likes it._

_He likes it._

It’s impossible and fucking thrilling and it makes Stiles just reckless enough to pat his belly and say, “Looks like I’m getting too big for your car, dude. Gonna need a seat belt extender soon.”

Derek draws in a breath and it washes over Stiles how much power he really holds over him, now, has always held over him, even when Derek makes him feel so fucking weak.

Derek turns to him, his hand frozen over the keys in the ignition, and Stiles watches as Derek’s eyes trail over his body, hungry. Stiles licks his lips. He adjusts himself in his seat, letting his belly wobble and cascade over the seat belt, shirt ridden up just enough to show a little bit of skin. Derek’s eyes widen.

Stiles feels invincible.

“Fuck, Stiles. Do you _ever_ want to make it to my apartment.”

He trails a finger thoughtfully over the bare skin of his lower belly. “Depends.”

“On what,” Derek says, barely a breath. He swallows, eyes hooked on Stiles’s gut.

Stiles’s own hand is trembling with nerves and adrenaline, but he reaches out for Derek’s hand, pulls it from the keys. “What do you want to do in your apartment that we can’t do right here?”

Derek huffs judgmentally, but it loses its effect when Derek’s so glassy eyed and putty in Stiles’s hands.

“There are plenty of things I want to do with you that could get us _arrested_ if we do them right here.”

Stiles feels bold. He brings Derek’s hand to his belly and jumps at the touch even though he’s expecting it. Derek’s fingers flex against his flesh. Stiles says, “Not if we don’t get caught.”

Derek gasps in a breath, grabs a handful of Stiles’s belly fat and Stiles shudders from the feeling. “God, I’m not,” Derek licks his lips, eyes hooked on Stiles’s gut. “I’m not gonna want to stop.”

Stiles’s voice comes so deep he can barely recognize it. “So don’t.”

Derek folds himself over the console and kisses him, tongue and teeth and heat, brutal like he can’t hold himself back. His hand squeezes Stiles’s belly and shakes it and Stiles nearly chokes, lets out a desperate, broken sound, muffled by Derek’s lips and his tongue. Derek tucks his face against Stiles’s throat and sucks kisses there while his fingers play with the soft, sensitive skin of Stiles’s lower belly.

Stiles groans. “Why haven’t we been doing this since forever?”

“Because I’m a fucking idiot,” Derek growls back without lifting his head.

“God, I _know._ You realize we could’ve been kissing this _whole time?_ You realize you could’ve done it the first time we hung out? On the deck at your parents’ house. No, before that. God. _Years_ before that.”

Derek pulls back to look at him. “Wow. How long have you had a thing for me, Stiles?”

“Fuck. Forever. _Forever._ ”

“Yeah?”

Stiles licks his lips. He brings up one hand to toy with the short hair at the back of Derek’s head. “Probably, like. Since I came over to work on that science project with Cora in high school, and you thought I was trespassing, and you said, ‘This is private property.’”

Derek glares at him. “I don’t sound like that.”

“You do. You scared the _shit_ out of me, you were so hot. I haven’t been the same since.”

Derek grins that wide and toothy, terrifying grin that made his teenage blood boil. Not much has changed. Stiles cups his face and kisses him again to feel that grin against his lips, to feel his mouth get soft and gentle when he brushes his fingertips across Derek’s stubble.

“Stiles,” Derek growls.

“Mhmm?”

“I’m gonna take you home, now.”

Stiles takes a shaky breath. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

“But I wanna make a stop, first.”

He pulls back and glares at Derek, offended. “ _What?_ ”

“You’ll like it, I promise.”

Stiles is taken aback enough that Derek is able to slide fully back into his seat without further protest, and start up the car. He peels away from the curb and sets off in a direction that is markedly _not_ where Derek’s loft is.

“Where the hell are we going?” Stiles whines.

“Relax. Just thought you might like a snack, that’s all.”

A lick of heat shoots through Stiles’s gut. He’s maybe a little full, but he could be fuller, _a lot_ fuller, and he has the sudden, thrilling realization that Derek wants him to be, too. Stiles squirms and says, “Oh. Okay. Proceed,” with as much nonchalance as he can muster.

From Derek’s laugh, he guesses it isn’t much.

The Camaro rumbles down city streets just on the edge of too fast. Stiles’s fingers drum a rhythm on his knee. He says, “What a weird coincidence, though, right? I mean, you and me.”

Derek slows to a stop at a red light, bright color playing over the planes of his face. He pauses for a long moment and then says, “I don’t believe in coincidences.”

“What, you think it was all... meant to be, or something?”

“Yes.”

Stiles’s heart skips. “Oh.”

Derek’s face is tight and pinched. He says, “Sorry.”

“No, I’m. That’s. Wow.” Stiles laughs, breathy and nervous-sounding. “Meant to be. You’re such a fucking asshole. I _knew_ you were a romantic. Shit.”

Derek’s mouth twitches, but Stiles can read the tension still set in his shoulders from a mile away. He slides his hand to grab onto Derek’s over the gearshift and he squeezes tight. And it’s that easy; the tension just fades away.

Silence stretches on for a minute or so, and while Stiles spends the time running his eyes over the smile that threatens to take over Derek’s face, just barely held at bay by sheer force of will, Derek drives them to Stiles’s favorite local burger joint.

He pulls up to the line and finally lets the smile overtake him, eyes glinting wickedly as he looks at Stiles and says, “What do you want?”

“You.”

Derek rolls his whole head, the muscles by his lips twitching with the effort of not smiling. “What do you want _to order?_ ”

Feeling reckless, Stiles grasps his belly like he’s been dying to all night and smirks in a way he hopes is more flirtatious than deranged. He says, “Hmm. You’re the feeder here, dude. Surprise me.”

Derek takes a sharp gasping inhale through his nose, and his voice is gravelly when he says, “How much do you think you can handle?”

“I’ll take whatever you give me.”

“Christ,” Derek says, pulling the car up to the drive-thru speaker.

A voice crackles from the other side. “Welcome to Big Billy’s Burgers, what can I get for you tonight?”

Derek licks his lips with a contemplative sound, his eyes scan the menu briefly before he says, “I’ll take a double bacon burger with no onions, a crispy chicken sandwich, large fries, and a large Coke, light ice.”

Stiles scoffs, unclicks his seatbelt, and scrambles over the console to lean over Derek and shout, “And chicken nuggets! Oh, and a milkshake, chocolate, extra large!”

The voice says, “Will that be all?”

“Yup!”

“That’ll be $14.95, pull up to the next window, please. Have a good night.”

“Thanks so much!”

Stiles turns to Derek with a hand braced on one of his thighs, and his belly spilling over onto the other, their faces separated by only a couple inches, and smacks a kiss on his lips before collapsing back into his seat. The car shakes when he lands and Stiles jiggles all over.

Derek rolls up the window, looks at him with dark eyes. “ _Greedy._ ”

“You think?” Stiles asks, innocent.

Derek’s eyes turn back to the line, and he pulls up just behind the car in front of them. “Yes. God, Stiles, do you really think you’re gonna be able to handle all that?”

Stiles waves his hands around, incredulously. “Are you really doubting me, Derek? Really? _Me?_ Have you met me? Have you not _literally_ watched me eat enough food for like four people in one sitting?”

“More like six people, at least.”

“My point exactly.”

“I don’t know.” Derek’s hands tighten around the steering wheel like they’d rather be squeezing Stiles. “I just watched you eat nearly all of my pigs in a blanket, plus some of the others, chips, beer, sandwiches, pizza rolls, god knows what else. You’re really telling me that you feel like you can do this?”

“Nachos.”

“What?”

“I also had like, a huge pile of nachos.”

“ _Fuck._ Right.”

Stiles squirms in his seat, rubs his gut with deliberate, careful movements, and Derek’s eyes snap straight to it. He knows how it looks, knows from countless videos he’s taken of his body, some exclusively just for wolf-it-down--for _Derek, god--_ and he knows how to make it good, how to squeeze his body in just the right way. And for the first time, Stiles can watch as the heat devours him, as his face flushes pink, and his lips part, slick and panting because _Stiles_ _made him._ He’s hard already, consumed just by the thought of this, something he’s dreamed about, ached for.

“I’m not full _yet,_ Derek. I can take it.”

Someone behind them honks obnoxiously and they jump apart from where they’d been leaning closer, closer into each other. Derek growls and eases the car forward, the first window now free.

Derek pays, looking visibly flushed, chest heaving with the breath he’s trying to keep under control, and Stiles feeds off the rush it gives him. When the window is back up, shielding them from the cold, he says, “You alright, buddy? You’re looking a little flustered.”

Derek shoots him a glare and eases the car up to the next window. “You’re a goddamn tease. I should’ve known.”

Stiles cackles as Derek rolls the window back down, takes their order from the person inside and hands him the goods. When both drinks are in the cupholders and there’s a warm paper bag of food in Stiles’s lap, they pull out onto the road and make their way to Derek’s loft.

Unable to help himself, Stiles reaches in the bag and grabs a handful of fries, shoves them all in his mouth at once and _hmm’_ s around the bite.

“You just can’t wait, can you? Fucking _insatiable,_ Stiles.”

Mouth still full, Stiles says, “‘M hungry.”

“No, you’re not.” Derek takes his hand off the gearshift and gropes Stiles’s belly, one finger grazing over the deep hollow of his navel. He pulls his hand back just as fast, and Stiles whines at the loss of it. “You’re just too fucking greedy to wait five minutes to get back to my place.”

Stiles’s heart is hammering in his chest. He licks salt off his lips, and bites them, wiggles in his seat to feel the way the weight of his belly settles against his cock. He’s not prepared for the way those kinds of words, in Derek’s voice, make him light up with more desire than just reading them ever had. Stiles says, “Maybe.”

“ _Definitely._ And since you can’t seem to wait for me to feed them to you, why don’t you finish those fries before we get to the loft.”

“Fuck, yeah, okay,” Stiles breathes, and he reaches his trembling hand into the bag, pulls out the whole container of fries, and starts shoveling them in his mouth. Reckless, desperate.

“Yeah, that’s good, Stiles. Eat them all for me.”

Stiles whimpers around a mouthful of fries, wishes he had a free hand so he could touch himself while he does this, and settles for leaning forward, pushing his belly into his cock. Finally, he pours the short, crunchy last fries and salt into his mouth and chews around so much food he can only just close his lips.

He rests his head back against the headrest and pants for breath. A rumbling, overstuffed burp slips from between his lips, and Stiles says, “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. Here.” Derek hands him the Coke and Stiles takes it, slurps a few gulps from the straw and belches. “That’s it, big guy.”

“Holy _fuck._ ” Stiles’s stomach cramps and he puts down the Coke. He’s already more full than he thought he’d be, his indulgence finally catching up with him at the worst possible moment. But then he burps again, and it relieves enough of the pressure that he’s not too worried. Two burgers, some nuggets, a soda, and a milkshake is nothing. He can handle it. Especially with Derek feeding it to him.

Derek pulls into the parking lot of his building, parks and shuts off the car. He turns to Stiles with a grin and says, “You doing okay, Stiles? You think you can get up?”

Stiles flips him off. “I’m not nearly that full, yet, asshole.”

He opens the door and heaves himself out of the car with one hand clutched around the bag. It takes some effort to even get to his feet, but in his defense, the Camaro is very low to the ground. The door knocks into the SUV parked beside them and Stiles has to squeeze his way out. Derek is already behind the car, looking absolutely delighted, one drink in each hand. “You enjoy watching my fat ass struggle, do you?”

“Absolutely.”

“What a freak, I can’t believe I like you.”

Derek steps into his space, so Stiles’s belly grazes his, and says, low into his ear, “That would be more convincing if you didn’t seem to be enjoying it just as much as I do, fat boy.”

Stiles shudders and feels his face grow hot, hotter. He pushes Derek back with his belly, towards the elevators. “You don’t know me.”

“I do know you.” Derek smiles, genuine, steps around to Stiles’s side, and they make their way to the elevator.

When the door closes, Derek pushes the button, backs him into the wall just by crowding into his space, his hands still full of drinks. Derek kisses him, open mouthed and hungry.

Stiles moans, uses his free hand to drag Derek’s hips to him, presses him into his gut. Derek breaks away from the kiss but stays close, brings the straw of one drink to Stiles’s lips. Stiles sips, but nothing comes out, sucks harder and gets a mouthful of thick, chocolate milkshake.

The elevator dings and the doors open, but they linger for a long moment, Stiles holding Derek’s eyes as he drinks it down. Eventually, Derek steps back, and Stiles steps forward, reluctant to lose the heat of his body. He follows him into the apartment, and unlike the first time, doesn’t waste even a second looking around at the space or the decor, impressive as it is, because Derek’s face is so much more beautiful, and he’s finally, finally allowed to look as much as he wants.

“Upstairs,” Derek says, breathy and soft but still something like an order that Stiles itches to obey.

He follows Derek up the narrow, iron spiral stairs, wary of the creaks and groans it makes when he steps on it.

For the first time, Stiles is in the loft, and it’s surprisingly spacious, the ceiling pitched but almost full-height all the way across, skylight dripping moonlight across the neatly-made king sized bed.

Derek puts the cups on the end table and switches on the light while Stiles drops his bag on the bedspread. He comes up behind Derek, rests his belly in the small of his back as he rubs his hands over the cool skin and goosebumps on Derek’s bare arms. Neither of them had thought to grab their jackets on the way out of Stiles’s place, too preoccupied with each other.

Derek turns in his arms and kisses him, the hand on his chubby cheek icy in contrast with the blood pumping fire under his skin. He’s drowning in the kiss, sinking beneath the wet heat of it, and he barely notices he’s moving until Derek has pushed him down so he’s sitting on the bed and Derek drops to his knees, perfectly eye level with Stiles’s stomach.

“Oh, god,” Stiles gasps.

Derek’s lips hover so close to his belly and his hands slide up his thighs. “Well? What are you waiting for?” He wraps both strong hands around Stiles’s love handles and _squeezes._ “Dig in.”

“You first.”

Derek flashes him a grin and plants his face in Stiles’s gut, nuzzles over his t-shirt for only a second before he gets impatient enough to rip the hem out from where it’s wedged under his belly. His stubbled face makes contact with Stiles’s skin and he shudders, collapses on himself, fists his hand in Derek’s hair. “Oh,” Stiles says. “God.”

And then he opens his mouth, runs his lips over Stiles’s belly, open so he can feel the catch of them against his skin, his hot, panting breath. “Go on, Stiles,” he says, without lifting his head.

As the words wash over him, a bottomless greed swallows Stiles whole, spurred on by the sight of him and the feeling of his lips and his hands. He reaches for the fast food bag, rips it open and takes out the first thing he finds. It’s the crispy chicken sandwich, and Stiles tears open the paper wrapper and takes a bite so big he almost can’t chew around it.

Derek’s tongue touches his heated skin, a gentle, too-quick tease and Stiles tenses all over. He wants to urge Derek on, to _beg,_ but his mouth is too full and all he can do is make desperate little noises in his throat.

It’s like a scene from a dream, something Stiles has thought about so often in halting bursts, in secret, that the reality of it crashes over him in wave after wave, with every touch.

Derek’s hands slide down from his lovehandles to his lower belly, test the heavy, doughy weight of it hanging between Stiles’s thighs. Stiles feels a tug low in his gut, can’t stop his hips from moving, chasing Derek’s touches, wanting more. He takes another bite and feels Derek’s tongue in his navel, a wet, hot, sucking kiss on the soft flesh right above it. He shudders and moans, and chews through the mouthful as quickly as he can so he can stuff in another, and another, desperate to make his belly bigger, fuller, _for Derek._

He feels like a livewire, hypersensitive, shivering. It’s almost more than Stiles can bear. He licks his lips, his fingers when he’s finished his sandwich, and with barely a pause, Derek surges to his feet and takes Stiles’s lips.

Stiles is drowning in it, and Derek is crawling over him, hands gliding over his sides and catching in his rolls. Stiles groans into his mouth, unreasonably pleased by the weight of Derek’s body on top of him.

He hears the crinkle of the paper bag and anticipation builds up in his gut. Derek breaks the kiss to say, “You ready for more, Stiles?”

“Fuck yeah, so ready. _God,_ you don’t even know.”

“ _Eager,_ ” Derek says. He pushes and pulls at Stiles’s body until Stiles gets the hint and shifts up the bed so he’s resting back against the pillows and headboard. Derek kisses his way across his double chin, lips sinking into it, and then he’s sucking kisses all the way down his neck, to his throat, and Stiles is squirming with pleasure.

“Yeah, yeah, come on, Derek. Feed me, come on, please.”

There’s a rumble in Derek’s chest that Stiles feels more than he hears, like a growl, and Derek sits up to straddle Stiles’s waist.

Stiles says, “Oh, god,” and bucks up into the pressure of Derek’s weight on his dick, the swell of his ass. Derek is trim but strong, muscular, and surprisingly heavy. “Please, please.”

Through the haze, he can feel Derek, hard against the swell of Stiles’s overhang when he leans forward to place something to Stiles’s lips. He realizes his eyes are closed, too caught up in sensation, and without looking he takes a bite. It’s a chicken nugget--his favorite. He takes the whole thing into his mouth when he realizes, and Derek’s fingers get caught on his lips. Derek gasps, pauses to trail his fingertips over Stiles’s face as he chews.

Stiles opens his eyes to see the expression on his face; He looks destroyed, flushed pink and glassy-eyed as he brings another nugget to Stiles’s mouth. He eats another, and another, and all at once, the fullness in Stiles’s gut hits him. He sucks in a shaky breath and shifts around trying to push up some air. Stiles catches the belch behind his fist, mouth closed, but Derek drags his hand away from his face. He keeps his eyes hooked on Stiles, frames his belly with both hands and shakes.

The motion is gentle and slight, but it hits Stiles hard, shaking up the contents of his stomach, and pouring gasoline over the fire inside him.

“Oh fuck, ah!” Stiles moans, and all the movement brings up another burp, and another, each slipping out of his open mouth.

“That’s it, Stiles. Let it out.”

“God, please.” Stiles realizes he’s writhing under the attention, grinding his cock against Derek’s ass in helpless little thrusts. He whines and grabs at Derek’s thighs, but Derek stays stubbornly still, brings another chicken nugget in front of Stiles’s face while his other hand kneads Stiles’s belly like dough.

Stiles chews through it quickly, craving fullness. The kind of fullness that would strand him on this bed for hours, that would make Derek have to chase away the sweet ache of it with kisses and gentle touches. The kind of fullness that’d still be there tomorrow in the heavy bloat of his gut, that he could _feel_ making him fatter.

He swallows and opens his mouth for more. Derek stacks the last two nuggets on top of each other and shoves them into Stiles’s mouth at once. Something about it strikes Stiles as exquisitely decadent and he whines, trying to chew as quickly as he can so he can swallow it down and keep eating.

“Such a glutton, Stiles.” Stiles grunts an affirmative and Derek rubs slow circles into the expanse of his belly. “I always wondered if you’d be into this. You could always eat so much.”

“Not always,” Stiles says around the mouthful, “Had to work at this, you know.”

“That’s true. You didn’t get this fat on accident, did you?”

“Not _exactly._ ” Stiles smirks, coy, slides his hands up and down Derek’s thighs.

Derek leans forward, arms braced on either side of Stiles, looming over him. “What was it like, _exactly?_ ”

“Dude, you already know--” Stiles cuts himself off with a gasp because Derek starts grinding against him, painfully slow, grabs Stiles’s belly with one hand and shakes it. “You already know I--oh, _god._ ”

“Maybe I wanna hear you say it.”

Something about the motion of his gut wobbling from side to side, so responsive under Derek’s hands, makes it nearly impossible to form coherent thought, but he manages to say, “Fine, shit, ah. I wanted to--I wanted to get fat, I like it, okay? You know I do.”

“Hm,” Derek says, mouth curving into a pleased smile. He leans down to kiss Stiles, pulls away just as he starts leaning up into it.  “I kinda like it, too.”

Stiles raises an eyebrow. “ _Kinda?_ ”

Stiles expects some more resistance, but what he gets is an honest, taken apart, “I _really_ like it. God, Stiles. You look…” Derek fists his hands in Stiles’s shirt, where it’s rucked up to the crest of his belly. “Christ, take this off.”

Stiles sits up, panting, raises his arms above his head so Derek can rip his shirt off. “So pushy.”

Derek doesn’t bother trying to make a comeback; he’s too busy looking at Stiles’s chest with stars in his eyes. It’s impressive, he knows, each side fat and round and draped over his belly, big nipples and little pink stretch marks on the sides to show how much he’s grown.

Derek leans forward to nuzzle them, and the sensation of Derek’s weight pressing into his full belly, his stubble scratching at sensitive skin, his hand grasping desperately at Stiles’s fat breasts, has him biting back noises, squeezing his eyes shut.

He wraps his lips around Stiles’s nipple and tongues at it, sucks until it almost hurts, flooding his body with need. “Derek, god, oh. Oh my god.”

Stiles is so full, so overwhelmed, but he needs more, more. He reaches for the fast food bag and fishes inside it past the empty wrappers and boxes until he has his hand around the last item: a big, juicy burger.

Derek pulls off him with a wet pop and grabs the burger out of his hand. “Greedy,” he admonishes, holding it out of reach. “Can’t you even wait for me to feed it to you?”

“You seemed busy.”

“Mhm,” he says, amusement sparkling in his eyes, like he sees it for the excuse it it is.

“It was getting cold.”

“Mhm.”

“Come _on,_ ” Stiles whines. “I _want_ it, Derek, just feed it to me, will you?”

“Now who’s pushy?” Derek says, grinning, but he unwraps the burger and brings it to Stiles’s lips.

He feels it drip onto his chest and takes a big bite, humming with pleasure. Derek leans over to the end table and grabs the soda cup, handing it off to Stiles so he can take sips between bites. And Stiles eats, basking in the sensation of Derek’s free hand on his chest, his gut, and for a moment it’s like he’s under a spell, eating almost mindlessly as he’s being caressed and pleasured. He’s so hard, and full enough that it’s starting to ache, but it doesn’t matter because for those precious few minutes it’s like that’s all he needs, all he wants, every cell in his body vibrating in perfect harmony.

Derek, and food, and sex, and Derek.

Stiles belches, letting it rumble out of his open mouth and Derek’s eyes droop, heavy lidded, and he’s grinding against Stiles, just once, like he can’t help it. He feeds him the last bite, and Stiles chases it with the very last of his drink. He burps and swipes the condiments off his chest with a finger and sucks it off.

Derek kisses him, all heated tongue and desperation, and Stiles loses himself in it, grasps at Derek’s thighs to pull him closer. Stiles’s bottom lip is between Derek’s lips, his teeth.

Derek pulls away and leans back over to swipe the shake from his bedside table. When he’s settled back in Stiles’s lap, he shifts, hips pumping once, twice, grinding his dick into Stiles’s gut.

“Getting a little excited are we, Derek?”

“God, you have no idea. You have no idea how good you look.”

Stiles smirks, cocky to hide how deeply it shakes him to have Derek’s approval, Derek’s desire so clear in front of him. “I think I have some idea.”

“You’re--God, you’re so fat, Stiles. So big, and all because you just couldn’t _stop._ ” Derek sweeps his free hand over Stiles’s belly, reverent. “You used to be such a skinny kid.”

Stiles licks his lips, body pulsing with anticipation. “Yeah, guess I really let myself go, huh?

“Fuck. You did. You must have gained a hundred and fifty pounds since I met you.”

“Just about.” Almost exactly, he realizes. From 147 to just over 300 in only a few years. The thought of it lights him up from the inside. “Gonna be more than that, soon.”

Derek snorts. “I bet.”

“You’re... gonna help me, right, Derek?” Even after all of this, Stiles still feels somewhat hesitant to voice it, to be so open about what he wants.

But Derek shudders, kisses him hot and filthy. “ _Fuck,_ ” he sighs, “Yes. I’ll help you get as big as you want. Bigger.”

His desire feeds back into Stiles’s, and aching for more, he says, “Yeah, god.” He glances at the milkshake in Derek’s hand. “Come on, what are you waiting for?”

“Mmm,” Derek says. He pats Stiles’s belly at the high, bulging crest of it. “You ready to top this off? Jesus.” Derek presses in, experimental, to test how much give there is, how much room he has. It barely budges. “Can you even fit anything in here?”

“Sure I can.” Stiles sits up, rests his weight on his elbows, and a belch slips out. It’s his stomach disagreeing with him, Stiles knows. It’s filled with groaning, aching pressure, already pumped full of hours worth of grazing even before they began this meal, decadent by anyone’s standards. His breath is shallow and uneven, and he feels gorged, but part of him thinks, _just a little more. You can take a little more._

He holds his mouth open until Derek sets the straw between his lips, and he sucks back a long, deep gulp. It’s still cool, but it’s melted, slides down his throat so easy.

Derek starts grinding his hips in a slow, languorous rhythm, pushing his ass so perfectly against Stiles’s cock. He takes another gulp, and another, and another, before the pressure gets to be too much. He opens his mouth and burps, pushes a few more out one after the other until the ache subsides enough that he can keep going.

Derek is looking at him like he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing. He almost can’t stand how good it all feels, how _Derek_ is the one making him feel so good, how he’s just as desperate for it, grasping at Stiles’s belly like he never wants to let go. He’s so strong, and his grip is bruising, just shy of painful, but it only piles pleasure and heat on top of that ache.

He leans forward to catch the straw and sucks his milkshake down, relentless, gulp after gulp sliding into his stomach so fast, he can feel it being pumped bigger and bigger. Derek speeds up the movement of his hips, and smacks a hand against Stiles’s belly, open palmed but gentle enough that there’s no sting. Stiles’s gut shakes, wobbles, and his eyes slip shut, head falling back and he moans, loud and echoing through Derek’s apartment.

“God, keep doing that,” he moans.

“Keep drinking and maybe I will.”

“Fuck, oh fuck,” Stiles whispers, too far gone to make a comeback or play hard to get, and he drinks, sends himself hurtling towards dangerously overfull, because he wants it, because Derek wants it, because the pressure on his dick, the pressure in his gut is so perfect but he wants more, more.

He grips Derek’s thighs tight, grinds up against his ass even though the movement is too much. Stiles burps, mouth still wrapped around the straw, still gulping back mouthfuls of sticky sweet fattening milkshake. Derek smacks his belly again, a little harder this time. Stiles moans, feels every reverberation in waves through his body. He does it again, and Stiles writhes, and he’s suddenly so, so close.

Derek’s free hand slides up his belly to grab onto his fat chest, catching his nipple between his fingers. He says, “That’s it. Fuck, Stiles, almost done. So good. Fuck, you’re so--big, ah. Stiles.”

Stiles’s eyes roll back into his head, and he sucks back the last dregs at the bottom of the cup, and he comes, vision greying out, pleasure ripping through every inch of his body. He shouts, hands tight on Derek’s perfect ass.

As he’s riding out the waves of it, settling into that warm, tingly rush, he registers Derek leaning forward to brace his hands on the mattress and grind against Stiles’s belly.

“Jesus, Derek,” Stiles says. He drags his fingers against Derek’s stubble and he makes a broken, stuttering sound, tenses all over.

“Stiles,” he whispers.

For a second Stiles is afraid he’s going to collapse on top of his too-full belly, but he rolls to the side, instead, off the bed and onto his feet. Stiles’s eyes slip shut, but and he hears the zipper of Derek’s jeans, the rustle of fabric. He cracks his eyes open again, so he can see Derek strip, see his sweaty, naked body, right on display, all for him.

“Can’t believe--” A burp bubbles up, deep from Stiles’s gut. “Can’t believe we didn’t even get naked,” Stiles mumbles. He’s shuddering, still gasping for breath.

Derek kneels on the mattress, hands on Stiles’s thighs. “It’s not too late. Want me to take these off?”

“Yeah.”

He pushes up Stiles’s belly so he can get at his fly, and Stiles finds unreasonable enjoyment watching him struggle to pop the button of jeans strained too tight under his stuffed gut. But when he does, the relief is palpable. He lifts his hips up so Derek can slide his pants and boxers down his legs and toss them onto the floor.

Just that little movement makes him queasy, and he hiccups, shaking every ounce of extra flesh on him. He’s so impossibly full, and his body is so heavy, _enormous_ and surrounding him, pinning him in place. He hiccups again, licks his lips free of milkshake.

Derek settles at his side, wraps an arm around his belly, and Stiles turns his head to look at him. His hand starts kneading at Stiles’s fat in helpless little aborted movements, even still, like he can’t manage to stop. Stiles doesn’t want him to.

“How do you feel?” Derek says.

Stiles loses the fight to keep his eyes open, but he smiles, loose and wild. He slurs, “Fuckin’ awesome.” He hiccups. “How ‘bout you, big guy?”

“Eh,” he says, but Stiles can hear the smile in his voice.

He snorts, thinks about trying to swat at him, but decides it’s far too much effort. “Fuck off, liar.”

Derek chuckles, low and soft, breath tickling Stiles’s face. He says, “Fuckin’ awesome about sums it up.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” Derek keeps kneading Stiles’s belly, building up to a little aggressive.

Stiles hiccups, again, a little painful this time. “Be gentle with me, big guy.”

His hand slows, stills over Stiles’s achy belly. “Sorry.”

“‘S okay. You’re eager. I dig that.” He wriggles, tries to make it clear Derek can continue as long as he’s more careful, and Derek’s hand starts up again in slow, soothing circles. “It’s just, I’m--” Stiles burps. “A little full.”

Derek huffs. “A little.”

“Mmm,” Stiles says, settling into sleepy, hazy pleasure. But a thought strikes him suddenly, eyes shooting wide open. “Fuck,” he says. “Who won the World Series?”

Derek pats Stiles’s blubbery lower belly. “It wasn’t the Mets, don’t worry.”

“How do you know that?”

Derek smirks. “Because they suck.”

“Take that back!”

“I can’t. It’s true.”

Stiles props himself up on one elbow and pokes Derek in the chest. “Hey, first of all, fuck you, buddy. Second of all, you’re lucky I’m super fucking into you, because if you were anyone else, I’d have to call this whole thing off just because you always make me miss baseball games. _Important_ ones.”

Derek laughs, continues petting him in a way that makes him want to purr. Breathy, Stiles says, “I’m serious. This trend better not continue.”

“I promise, in the future, I’ll do my best to keep my hands off you while you watch the Mets lose.”

“Rude,” Stiles says, but he drops back onto the pillow, wriggling to get comfortable. He hums at the feeling of Derek’s gentle fingers brushing over his skin.

“We’ll check tomorrow,” Derek says.

“‘S not the _same._ ”

“Jesus. Stop complaining and go to sleep.”

“ _Fine._ ” Stiles rolls over, facing away from him, and drags Derek’s arm around his belly so he can keep playing with it, hopefully forever. He sinks into Derek’s incredible, pillowy mattress and lets Derek’s hands lull him towards sleep. Softly, heart in his throat, he says, “Hey, Derek?”

“Hmm.”

“You know I’m like, super in love with you, or whatever.”

Derek stills and Stiles feels his arm tighten around him, feels Derek press light, fluttery kisses to the back of his neck. And as he’s drifting helplessly towards a food coma, he hears Derek whisper, “I love you, too, Stiles.”

 

***

 

Stiles wakes up and smells bacon. He groans, blinks the sleep from his eyes, groggy after last night’s binge. He gasps when he remembers, eyes shooting open. Stiles is in the loft. In Derek’s loft. In his bed. A sleepy grin splits his face, and he stretches, basks in the warmth for a few minutes before he summons the energy to roll out of bed.

His stomach feels stretched and bloated. He staggers over to Derek’s dresser to try and find something he can squeeze into, settling for a pair of loose sweatpants that he still has to force over his thighs, testing the durability of the fabric. The waistband creaks ominously, but he thinks Derek will find it in his heart to forgive him if he manages to pop a seam or two.

Stiles thuds down the stairs, footfall too heavy on the metal frame for him to be anything but obnoxiously loud.

Derek says, “Hey, you’re up.”

Stiles looks back towards the kitchen to see Derek put down a bowl and wipe his palms on his own sweatpants. He’s shirtless and spectacular, muscles glowing in the soft yellow light from the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Stiles strides over to him and kisses him until he’s dizzy and breathless, because he’s beautiful, because he _can. Finally, finally._

“You made breakfast,” Stiles says. He heaves a contented sigh into Derek’s neck.

“Of course. Gotta keep you well fed, don’t I?”

Stiles lifts his head to grin at him. “Yeah, that’s like, your job, now, isn’t it?”

Derek’s hands slide down Stiles’s back, fingers getting caught in the rolls. “I guess it is.” He bites his lip, thinking over something and says, “But first, I wanna check something.”

“You wanna do what now?”

Derek grabs his hand, drags him down the hallway towards the bathroom. “Come with me.”

“Can’t a shower wait until after breakfast?” Stiles whines. “I’m hungry.”

Derek shoots a flat look back at him. “Indulge me.”

“Isn’t this whole thing about you indulging _me?_ ”

Rolling his eyes, Derek pushes him into the bathroom, backs him up until his ankles graze something on the floor. Stiles looks down and finds a scale looking back at him. He feels a smirk stretch his face. “ _Oh,_ I see.” Derek’s gaze is a challenge if he’s ever seen one. Stiles says, “You know, I just did a weigh-in last week, I wouldn’t expect much difference if I were you.”

“No? Why don’t you try it and we’ll see.”

“All right, all right. Guess it wouldn’t hurt to mark the start of this thing, huh?” Stiles wiggles his eyebrows. “If you’re gonna help me get nice and fat, that is.”

Derek’s hands work their way around his back, kneading the spare tire that spills over the waistband of his borrowed sweatpants. “I hate to break it to you, but you’re already nice and fat,” Derek says. He spins Stiles around and pushes him until he steps onto the scale.

Stiles aches for his touch as soon as his hands are gone, but he aches to see the damage of last night’s meal nearly as much. He tilts his hips back and shoulders forward so he can see over his gut, still mountainous and bloated even hours later. Stiles watches the digital numbers on the scale flash rhythmically until they finally settle on 316.

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” Derek says from beside him. “But that’s got to be about... seven pounds of bloating just from last night’s feast.”

“Uh,” Stiles says, breathless. “Yeah, about that. Six, maybe.”

Stiles feels the rush of it wash over him, the heat. And when Derek’s hand smacks against his gut, once, twice, he lights up with it, greedy for more. Derek says, “Jesus, Stiles. Just how big do you plan on getting?”

“Hmm, I don’t know.” Stiles pretends to think, but his mind is just screaming _big_. He lets himself imagine it, more fat enveloping his body, more weight. Belly round and jutting into the space Derek is in now. He shivers, and says, “Go big or go home, right?”

Derek snorts. He drags Stiles off of the scale and into his arms. “Well you’re in luck, Stiles. Brand new relationship, boyfriend who’s a professional chef, who knows what might happen?”

“Yeah, what’s gonna happen is I’m gonna be a fucking _whale,_ is that what you want?”

“Yes.”

“Cool, me too.” Stiles leans in to smooch the tip of Derek’s nose, and gets the satisfaction of watching a deep flush flood his cheeks before he presses Stiles into the bathroom wall.

“You wanna get started, fat boy?”

Stiles near writhes against him, hot and needy and _hungry._ “Oh, fuck yeah. What’d you make?”

“Waffles, bacon, sausage, scrambled eggs with cheese.”

His mouth waters. “Oh my god, man of my dreams. How are you _real._ ”

Derek grins and says, “Come on.” He holds out a hand and leads Stiles to the banquet laid out on the table.

His stomach growls at the sight, but there’s a craving in him that goes deeper than physical hunger, that wants more than food. And as Stiles watches Derek heap waffles onto his plate, for the first time, he knows that at the end of the meal, every part of that craving will be satisfied.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end! ..Or is it?? Keep an eye out for more slice of life snapshots in this verse bc I just can't help myself lmao
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading and commenting, you're all amazing!! This has been a fun ride and I hope y'all have enjoyed it as much as I have!

**Author's Note:**

> My tumblr is also [chubstilinski](http://www.chubstilinski.tumblr.com) \-- Follow for more chubwolves and wolf compatriots~!


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